


Everybody Loves a Happy Ending

by ginandironic



Series: I Choose You [1]
Category: Gilmore Girls, Ten Inch Hero
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:02:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginandironic/pseuds/ginandironic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the good guy doesn't get the girl. Sometimes the girl breaks the good guy's heart. In the end, though, fairies live happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody Loves a Happy Ending

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to lazy_daze for the beta.
> 
> I did an edit of this on 8/14 because there was some problematic stuff in here (mainly re: Tish) that I'm not okay with. I think it's reasonable to assume Priestly would think shitty things about Tish were she to cheat on him, but misogyny isn't my bag.

It was Tuesday night in a bar that ranked just above dive, but Priestly had just gotten paid, and nothing was sadder than drinking alone and watching Letterman. He sipped his Corona until he could feel the prelude to a buzz simmering in his veins, and then he cracked some peanuts and watched ESPN on commercial break. Ads for Tide and the new Acura were more entertaining than sports.

The bar counter was almost empty, save for him and a regular who had seen better decades. He didn't have to make small-talk, let alone eye contact, which was fan-fucking-tastic, even if it defeated the purpose of drinking in public in the first place. He was onto his third Corona and ESPN was back with some boring commentary when some dude settled into a stool two down from him. Priestly gulped the last dregs and hissed, partial irritation. The dude didn't say anything immediately, which he counted as a blessing, but then Priestly turned to scope out a new bowl of peanuts, and he spoke up.

"Hey, don't you work at that sandwich shop?"

He dragged the bowl towards his chest and started cracking away. "Uh-huh. I'm pretty memorable."

"You're..." He paused, and Priestly checked him out in his peripheral. He looked familiar—not in a 'I see a billion people a day and their faces start to blend into one huge mural of the same' way, but in a 'dude, you're pretty memorable there yourself' way. He was like fifty feet tall, knees almost up to his chin in the stool, and he had hair like a shaggy cockerspaniel, but maybe one who owned a comb. "Priestly, right?"

"Yup. But not like, Brendan Walsh on 90210 with the stupid 90's hair Priestly."

"Just Priestly, I got it. I'm Dean."

Priestly looked up from the peanuts to look at Dean head-on, and they shared a polite, 'I'm not an asshole' smile. "Nice to see you, Dean."

He'd never caught his name before, but you didn't forget someone that tall easily. Dean only came into the shop once a month or so, if Priestly's memory served him right, and he ordered a party platter every single time. He must have worked as a contractor or a construction worker, maybe even a plumber, _something_ involving hard hats, and every month he ran some sort of reward system that ended in sub sandwiches.

"Last time I saw you, you weren't really..." Dean shifted on his stool, the rickety legs squeaking under his weight. "Rocking the punk look."

"Mm." He popped a couple peanuts in his mouth and crunched. "Temporary insanity."

"Oh, yeah?" He actually sounded interested, and Priestly guessed you didn't see too many guys with earrings when you hammered wood for a living.

"I thought I would khaki up for a girlfriend. Didn't work out."

"What, she conservative or something?"

Priestly snorted on Corona, which wasn't pretty or painless. Tish conservative, yeah, okay. "No, she just didn't dig it." Dean's wide-eyed appraising stare made him keep blabbing. "Didn't dig a guy wearing more makeup than her, I guess."

"So you put back the guyliner and tried to make it work?" Dean shook his head on a laugh, thumb methodically ripping at the label on his longneck Bud. "That sucks. You were hot."

Priestly did a good job not reacting to that. He didn't cough, or laugh awkwardly, or any of the million things he usually did when people—okay, men—hit on him.

"Shit. I think you're supposed to be into the fifth beer before you accidentally admit you like guys. Um. Sorry to ruin our manly bonding moment." Dean shifted around more, like he was itching to get up and forget this ever happened.

It wasn't like Priestly hadn't eaten a foot sandwich a time or two. He smiled and waved a hand in the air to brush it off, realizing how close to drunk he was off three or four beers when he found himself enraptured by the glint of his rings. "I don't think it gets any less awkward after five beers, dude. Just less coherent."

Dean smiled wide and grateful - there may have been dimples—and Priestly wanted to laugh at how suddenly young he looked. Eighteen or so compared to his obvious mid-twenties.

"So tell me more about this girl." He leaned forward against the bar counter, bracing his elbows on it, apparently not minding the sticky crap that was getting all over his leather jacket.

"Her name's Tish."

"Wait, like, Tish at the sub shop Tish?"

"One and only. Though I wouldn't be too surprised if it turned out she has an evil twin, if you know what I mean." He looked at his beer bottle for a minute, thoughtful. "I had a thing for her, you know, kind of obviously, since I went all Aberzombie &amp; Fitch in my quest. And I threw away a good fuckin' hundred dollars of body jewelry, that's some serious dedication." He rubbed a thumb over the labret he'd had to have redone; all of his ear piercings stayed open, but pretty much everything else closed up.

"I've been like that."

Priestly shot a dubious look at the clothes Dean had on; he was wearing a V-neck polo under his freaking leather jacket. His closet probably ran a color spectrum from beige to charcoal.

"No—just. Desperate to prove you'll do anything, be anybody." Dean shot a glance to his beer like he'd just spilled every dark secret on loudspeaker.

"Desperate's a good word for it. She finally gave in," Priestly said as his lips curved into a wry smile before he took a swig, "and it was. Fine."

"What happened?"

"What do you think? I caught her with some asshole."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. I mean, she didn't do it to be a bitch, I think she seriously has some issues that have nothing to do with me or my eyeliner, but whatever. I'm allowed to piss and moan in a bar if I want to."

"So you took the T-shirts out of retirement." Dean leaned to knock his beer against Priestly's, although his arms were freaky long and it didn't take much to close the distance.

"Yep. And I spiked my fucking hair." He gave an exaggerated salute with his Corona. "No more walking around looking like a lost Brooks Brother."

"Hallelujah," Dean laughed.

"D'you wanna know the part that really chaps my ass? The guy, he had a fucking lip ring." And hair so blond he was sure 20 volume peroxide was liberally involved. Tish was nibbling on the ring and he had his palms all over her ass, and Priestly was wearing Dickies unironically. It ranked pretty high on the worst moment of his life list.

"What?" Dean's voice came out in an earnest if loud squawk of disbelief. "That's just low."

"Tell me about it, partner. We still work together." He shuddered dramatically.

"This gives me new and ominous insight into the inner workings of the Beach City Grill. I had no idea."

"So what about you? What do you want to piss and moan about? I think it's your turn."

Dean smiled and winced at the same time, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Nothing. I'm not that interesting."

"Come on, you bat for an interesting team. Maybe you bat for two teams. If you bat for three, I'm officially uncomfortable."

"Just the two. Uh. I don't know what to say." He shrugged.

"Okay, start with where you're from."

"Chicago. And then Connecticut. How did you kn—"

"Trust me; I can spot a local a mile away. You have a total 'I'm not one of you psychos' vibe going on. Why'd you move?"

"For the job. And the beach. I kind of wanted to get away from snow."

"Just snow?" Priestly asked, eyebrow raised.

"Just snow, an ex-wife, and an ex-girlfriend moving on to bigger things than a contractor and suburbia."

The thing about baggage was how easily it was spotted under bar lights. Priestly nudged the bowl of peanuts at Dean for lack of something better to do, and nodded at the bartender. He pulled the chain until his wallet followed, and slapped down a twenty. "I've got this," he said, gesturing to the small collection of bottles in front of them. "And one for the road."

Dean smiled at him, genuine and only a little drunk.

\--

He pretty much forgot about Dean and their caring and sharing moment, but he did feel bad at first that he hadn't gotten the dude's email address. Priestly didn't do therapy, and unless Dean had spiked his drink, there was something about the guy he must have liked enough to trust.

That and he'd been holding in the Tish story for a month and a half, ignoring Jen and Piper's questioning stares and Tish's pale-faced, shoe-gazing avoidance. It was bound to come out sometime, and he was ultimately glad it happened on friendly terms.

He was pulling apart some lettuce and patting it dry when he heard Tish's low tones turn decidedly flirty, and his back tensed. He kept patting, maybe with more force, until the answering voice tripped something in his memory.

He turned around just as Dean said, "Hey, Priestly!"

"Yo." He dried his hands on the apron around his waist. "Deano. You called for the party platter?"

Dean wasn't wearing his leather jacket that day; just a navy t-shirt over khakis. Priestly nearly snickered at how Boy Scout the guy looked. You'd never know he went for dick, but then again, the freaky ones tended to surprise you.

"Yeah. I have this monthly thing if we've made our recycling quota, sort of an incentive, but we've never made it past 'complimentary sandwiches.'"

"What's the next level?"

"Um. Ice cream." Dean scratched behind his ear, smiling. Tish was still in their personal bubbles, but trading a weird look from one of them to the other.

"Sounds awesome. I've almost got your order up; do you want something while you wait?"

Dean's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline, but he was still grinning, probably not unaware of Tish. "Sure. I'm easy."

Priestly did a drum roll on the counter and gave a wink so ridiculous it should have been on a billboard. "That's not what you said the other night."

Dean got that he was joking, laughed loudly and didn't get touchy, and settled himself into a booth to wait. Priestly finished packing up his order and made a quick roast beef on wheat with extra mustard and lettuce, just a guess, because Dean seemed like the hearty type. He could feel Tish's eyes on him while he whistled and worked, and it felt great to snatch Dean out of her net before she could get his number. It felt better than a baseball bat would have.

He brought the wrapped sandwich up to Dean, who took it with a murmured thanks. Priestly propped himself against the booth and crossed his arms while Dean chowed down.

"I'm off the clock at five, if you wanna grab a beer or something."

Tish's eyes felt like laser beams boring through his flesh, but whatever, she could think what she wanted.

Dean licked mustard off of his lip and shrugged. "I was gonna stay home and order pizza, but if you wanna go out I'm down."

"Pizza sounds good, if you don't mind me monopolizing your couch."

"Nah. I haven't, um," he started hesitantly, "made very many non-work related friends, so monopolizing sounds great."

"Great. Gimme your address." He took one of the napkins and set it down in front of Dean, along with a pen from his apron. "I'll go finish your order."

\--

Dean lived in an apartment at least ten minutes from the beach. Priestly remembered his first place that wasn't his parents'; a craphole he shared with a guy named Jim, who left dirty socks in remarkable places.

Priestly stood on the stoop, holding a six-pack and trying to peer inside the picture window just to the left of Dean's door. It looked tidy inside. Not bachelor pad tidy, but actually tidy. Then again, Dean had said something about being divorced, and he was half-fag. He saw Dean's looming shape coming towards him through the window, and plastered on a friendly smirk.

Dean swung the door open. He had on jeans and a white V-neck, tan and preppy looking, and Priestly felt decidedly overdressed in his camo pants and Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner shirt. He'd left his jacket in the car. Small favors.

"You brought beer!" Dean laughed, backing up to let Priestly in. He was barefoot and had toes so long he belonged in some sort of documentary on animals with bizarre prehensile appendages.

"I brought beer and morale; you just have to supply the pizza."

"Pizza's on its way. I don't know what you like, so I got like one of everything."

Inside, the studio was as tidy as it looked through the window. Dean had an old leather couch and a big screen TV, an actual coffee table instead of milk crates, and a tower of CDs in the corner. Priestly spared himself the agony of going over and examining them, opting instead to grab one of the beers and crack it open.

The TV was situated on top of a wooden stand, and Dean swung open the doors to reveal a lone Playstation 3 and a pile of DVDs and games. "I was thinking we could chill, watch something, whatever," Dean explained, turning on his DVD player and ejecting a movie already in there. Priestly recognized the cover even from where he was, halfway across the room.

"Dude, Rob Zombie is the bomb."

Dean glanced at Priestly over his shoulder. "Yeah? I just got the 3-disc unrated. Just in time for Halloween." He smiled and tossed the case on top of the pile.

"Glad to know your taste doesn't completely suck," Priestly smirked, licking the taste of beer from his lips.

"I'll surprise you."

The doorbell rang just then, and Dean had actually bought pretty much one of everything. Priestly came up to the door to help him juggle all the boxes, and felt bad at the total, so he shoved a twenty at the delivery kid before Dean could stop him.

They watched a Bond marathon and drank their way through the six-pack and all the beer in Dean's fridge, which was a substantial amount for someone who looked so Nick-at-Nite wholesome. Priestly ended up crashing on Dean's couch, smelling the leather the whole night and waking up with a headache from how his neck was cricked against the cushion. Dean was already up, brewing coffee and reading a book, and Priestly prodded him into giving him a ride so he wouldn't be too late for work.

\--

Dean came over a good hour before he was supposed to. Priestly was lucky he heard the doorbell because he was in the bathroom and had brought the boombox in with him. The tape he'd put in had ended side one, and he was too busy to flip it over. The doorbell was so stark and sudden in the quiet that he jumped, then eyed the clock, and stopped smearing Manic Panic into his hair.

The black plastic trash bag he was using as a sort of bib around his shoulders fluttered annoyingly as he walked to answer the door. Answering was a fucking problem, since he'd left his plastic gloves on, and he didn't want to go through the delicate mess of taking them off.

"Um," he frowned, before figuring out that he could cover his violently purple-covered hand with the edge of the trash bag.

"Hey." Dean's look when he saw the plastic bag and Priestly's hair was epic. He laughed and awkwardly stuck a hand in his pocket. Priestly was pleased to note a leather jacket and jeans actually worn together, and not in that 'I'm a manly construction worker' way, since he'd paired them with black boots. "I'm early, I know."

"You can help me dye my hair." He backed away and let Dean in, bare feet almost tripping on the folded over rug he hadn't quite gotten to straightening out yet. "Lucky you."

Dean shut the door behind him and shrugged off the jacket. Underneath was a red long-sleeved and totally nondescript shirt, but he supposed you couldn't have everything. Maybe he could get Dean drunk and pierce an ear. Dean followed him to the bathroom, where everything was set up, and Priestly held out the little plastic brush he always neglected to use. He sort of went for the dump and spread around method.

"Hurry up. My forehead itches from all this Vaseline."

Dean laughed. "Vaseline? I don't wanna know." He rolled up his sleeves and took the brush carefully. He dunked it in the jar and swiped the sides, anal retentive and probably clueless when faced with hair dye, since it looked like he frequented Quick Cuts or maybe even had a favorite old-fashioned barber back in that quaint small town he said he was from.

"Dude, just put it on me, it's not rocket science." He shifted his weight, the bathroom tile cold and squeaking under his feet.

"Shut up." Dean squinched up his face and came at Priestly with the brush, who sighed and waited for Dean to take forever. "I'm trying to get it on evenly. I don't want it on the sides, right?"

"Right. It doesn't have to be perfect, you know."

"Don't distract me. And stay still."

Dean took about ten minutes brushing the dye through his hair, going through far less product than Priestly usually did. There was more than half the jar left when he was done, and Priestly peeled his gloves off and tossed them in the trash can.

"Now what?" Dean asked, hysterically rinsing the cheap brush out in the sink. You'd think it was an emu-hair paintbrush for all the attention he gave it.

"Now we wait. Come help me decide what takeout to order."

"What, you don't want me to paint your nails?" Dean teased, following Priestly down the hall.

The plastic bag flapped and Priestly irritably ripped it off with his finally bare hands. "Trash this, you total fag. We'll talk about the nail painting shit." He grabbed the phone and a few menus while Dean opened the cabinet underneath his sink to throw out the bag. "I'm thinking Thai, but if you're too pedestrian, I'll settle for Chinese."

"Chinese is good, I'm craving some sweet and sour."

He dialed, and Dean came back around to wait with him. He eyed the posters on the wall in the hallway, and the insane Elvis clock Priestly had over the phone, before apparently getting bored and staring at Priestly.

Priestly ordered them too much food, but Dean was pretty much a human garbage disposal, and Priestly liked leftovers. He clicked off with a, "He said about forty five minutes," and was putting the phone back on the charger so he almost didn't notice Dean's eyes widen. "What?"

"You've got a ring," Dean gestured, and Priestly looked down. "I didn't know."

"Oh, yeah. It's kinda new, actually." He flicked his nipple with a finger, just because he finally could jack with it after all those months of having to be careful. "Got it the week after Tish dicked me over, since I was getting so much else done. I'm not very creative with my post-breakup fuck yous."

"Hey, whatever floats your boat," Dean grinned. "When shit happened to me, I got an ugly haircut. I don't know what I was supposed to be saying with that. 'Screw you, I'm going to make sure no one finds me attractive?'"

"Nah, I get it. You were being defiant. What did your wife do?"

Dean's eyes narrowed and he dropped his gaze to the floor for a second. "Wasn't my wife. It was, uh. Another girl."

"When did you find time to start drilling boys between all this girl-dating?"

"That all came after my divorce," Dean said, quiet but looking at him again. Clearly a hands-off subject, so Priestly grinned and tapped the counter.

"Wanna play some Guitar Hero before the chow gets here?"

"You're going down," Dean crowed, planting himself on the couch.

\--

He was all set to head over to Dean's for a poker game, although color him not excited over having to meet some of Dean's friends from work. Priestly didn't like to judge, but hello, construction workers probably didn't take well to men wearing skirts and eyeliner. He figured as a preemptive strike he should probably pair the kilt with a leather jacket and the usual combat boots. Just to get the shock out of the way at once.

Unfortunately, when he slid into his ride and turned the key in the ignition, nothing happened. Literally. When he turned the key again, not a billow of smoke from the exhaust pipe, no sputtering, no sign of life from the engine. Despite what a freaking sweet car he had, Priestly's knowledge of automobiles extended to "feed gas, check oil when shit starts happening." It had served him fine up until then, thank you very much, and he didn't start bumming out until he realized he'd have to miss not only the poker game, but the look on Dean's face when he showed up in a kilt.

Sighing, he pulled out his cell phone. Dean picked up on the second ring.

"Hey! I just got off of work."

"Yo." Priestly adjusted the brand new fuzzy dice hanging from his rearview. They were glow-in-the-dark. They were awesome. "Houston, we have a problem."

Dean laughed, the sound vibrating the phone against his ear. "What's up?"

"My car apparently decided to commit suicide while I was asleep, so I'm down a lift. I'm probably gonna sit this one out."

"Well, wait a minute." Priestly heard the clunks of what had to have been Dean putting down his stuff -- groceries, likely. "I could come get you, or you could take the bus—"

"Nah, I've gotta stay home and call around for a mechanic I can afford. If any are open. God, if this had happened at work I could have had Zo work her voodoo stuff."

"Um. What?"

"Nothing. Just, drink a beer for me, all right? We'll go out after work or something." He hoped he could get to work tomorrow; he needed the money. Taking the bus wasn't a problem, but somehow getting the car over to an autoshop and getting back home was.

"No, no, no. I'll postpone the game until later. I'll be right over."

"Dude, I really don't need a ride that bad," Priestly laughed.

"Who said anything about a ride? Do you have jumper cables or should I bring mine?"

"Jumper what?" he asked, mostly to be a smartass. No, he didn't have any.

"Never mind. Uh. See you in a few."

\--

Dean showed up in a black truck, tools spilling out in the bed. Priestly was waiting outside in the parking lot, eating crumbs from a bag of potato chips and totally rocking his kilt. Dean swung out of the cab and smiled, and you could tell the instant he noticed what Priestly was wearing; his eyes narrowed as his smile turned into an amused smirk.

"Niiiice."

"What can I say," Priestly munched and swallowed, "I like what it does for my legs." He pushed himself off of his car, affectionately and unofficially named Heap of Junk, and walked over to peer into the bed of Dean's trunk.

Dean pulled off his jacket, tossing it into the cab behind him. Underneath the jacket he had on a t-shirt, which to Priestly's everloving surprise he removed. That left a white tank top, as in wife-beater that you'd normally see on Cops, or maybe on really fruity models. The door of the cab closed with a creaky slam.

"You've got some guns on you," Priestly remarked, doing his best to keep from staring. He had no idea where the guy kept that. At all.

Dean gave a half-hearted 'ha ha'—he should have known the dude couldn't take a compliment—and pulled one of the toolboxes out, arm flexing. He brought it over to the curb and thunked it down, popped Priestly's hood and stared down at the mess underneath like a surgeon about to start in it for the long haul.

"Um, not to sound ungrateful, or anything, but you do know what you're doing, yeah?"

With a grunt, Dean bent and nabbed a wrench. "Yeah. My whole family worked on cars. My dad, his dad, pretty much everybody has a talent for engines. I think possibly one of our ancestors invented the car, unless my grandpa was lying to me." He braced himself on the front bumper and leaned in, tall frame stretching to fill almost all of the hood space. "When was the last time you had this thing serviced?"

Priestly snickered at the word 'serviced.' "I think I had the oil changed a few years back." He didn't have to see Dean's face to know the look of horror that inspired; the line of Dean's back stiffened, and Priestly had to stuff down cackling outright. Dean was too much fun to mess with. He fluffed up and squawked like a freaking cat.

Dean spent a few minutes twisting knobs and doing God knew what else. Priestly got bored and wandered inside to wash his chip-greasy hands, and by the time he'd checked his messages, sorted his mail, and watered the plant sitting neglected on his kitchen windowsill, Dean was still hard at work. He had jumper cables strung from his truck to Priestly's car, and the front of his wife beater wasn't exactly clean. He'd also started to sweat in the late afternoon Santa Cruz sun. Priestly went back inside and got him a glass of green tea.

"Thanks," Dean said, breath coming quicker than usual. He wiped sweat off of his forehead and took the tea in his grease-smudged hand, gulping half of it down in two swallows. Priestly was impressed, and took the tea back so Dean could have his hands free. "As far as I can tell, it's just the starter gone bad."

"Oookay. How many organs do I need to sell on the black market?"

Dean sighed and wiped his hands off on a filthy old rag he had in his toolbox. "Just your brain. You won't miss it much, anyway." Priestly mock-punched him on the arm. Damn, again. "Don't worry about it. Couple hundred, but I'll have to scrounge around to find one for a Falcon this old. Could be a few days."

"Oh, fucking damn."

Dean closed the hood and grinned. "No worries, I can give you a ride." Priestly leered and took a swig of Dean's tea. Dean flushed, the bridge of his nose and his cheeks reddening like sunburn. "To work."

"Whatever, big boy," Priestly said, still leering. "I've got your number."

Dean opened his mouth like he was going to say something, sputter in indignation most likely, but he ended up closing it. Priestly laughed, long and hard, jostling the tea in the cup so it almost sloshed over the rim. Dean stopped frowning prissily and started laughing too, and Priestly really needed to eat something soon because his stomach churned hard.

"I'll clean this up and we can head inside," Dean said, picking up his tools and lugging them back to his truck.

"Won't we be late for your poker game?"

"I cancelled," Dean shrugged. "Figured I might be here a while."

"Dude!"

"They'll all head over to Johnny's house this time; it's not a big deal. Your car's life was on the line, man."

"I was looking forward to horrifying some manly men with my skirt," Priestly protested. "You're a fucking killjoy."

"Sorry." Dean smiled brightly as he collected the jumper cables, red and black twining around his bare arm. "Next time you can wear a fishnet top. I promise they'll be extra-horrified." There was a lull, and he asked, "Are you hungry?" Dean asked.

"I could eat. How about Betty Burgers for your trouble? I can't promise I can buy the whole joint out of food to feed your freakish body, but I can try."

Dean's eyes widened at the mention of burgers. "Oh, yeah. I just." He looked down at his stained shirt and grimaced. "Lemme change."

He opened the door to his truck and dug around while Priestly waited, coming up with his t-shirt. He stripped off the tank, just like that, in the middle of the parking lot, where all the creepy neighbors could see his six-pack. Priestly hoped it gave that old lady with the fifty million stray cats a heart attack. Once the shirt was on, Dean hopped into the truck and waved for Priestly to get in.

\--

Betty Burgers was always busy, even if you went late at night. It definitely wasn't late when Dean and Priestly rolled into the place, but they got a booth pretty fast considering how packed it was. They sat underneath a poster of Mick Jagger, which was way better than having to sit under Springsteen—that travesty had happened last time Priestly ate there.

The waitress took their order almost as soon as they sat down, and Priestly raised an eyebrow of approval when Dean ordered the Mad Max burger. Dean ordered a double burger and beer, and hunkered down in the booth some to tune out the dinner rush noise.

"It's fucking busy," he complained, when Dean saw him sliding around. "Feel like I'm in a fish bowl."

"Part of what I like about Santa Cruz. It's laid back and all, but it's so busy you can still feel anonymous."

"Yeah, I guess that's one way to look at it."

"Where I'm from, Stars Hollow, it's like freaking Cheers. Everybody knows your name." Dean shook his head and nudged a saltshaker across the tabletop with his finger, then nudged it back into place.

"I have that problem anyway," Priestly said wryly, all too aware that you could see his pink hawk like a shark's fin over the top of the booth. "Anonymous isn't really an option for me, and I gotta say I don't mind."

"I don't really mind. It's nice sometimes, being a part of something like that. But then the flip side is, when you screw up, it's practically in the newspaper." Dean blanched. "It might have been in the newspaper, come to think of it."

"Jesus." The waitress flew by and dropped their drinks on the table, and Priestly took a healthy sip from his beer. "Your divorce?"

"My wedding, my divorce. It was all sorts of messy." Dean stirred his milkshake with a straw, and Priestly had to snort at the picture he made. Nostalgic, or despondent, six foot five billion guy hunched over a table and playing with his milkshake. Priestly almost wanted to give him some cookies. "I used my wife as a rebound for the girl I was in love with, Rory," he mumbled, sipping at the straw, "then I cheated on her with Rory."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. It felt like I was public enemy number one, not that I can blame anybody for thinking that. After Rory and I fell apart, I took the first job that could get me out of there."

"Santa Cruz."

"No, first it was L.A." He smiled suddenly, looking tired, and stirred his shake again. It was light pink—strawberry. He reminded Priestly of such a kid sometimes. And he'd been married. He really couldn't imagine it. "I hated it there. It was too hot and the work was thankless."

"I've been to L.A., they're all dicks."

Dean laughed. "Right. So, one of my buddies was taking a job down here, and I went with him. Did some painting, some roofing, and finally got my ass in gear to work as a contractor instead of doing shitty odd jobs."

"When did the whole doing guys thing come into it?"

Dean choked on his mouthful of shake. He fumbled a napkin out of the holder and held it to his lips, coughing. "Fair enough." He coughed again, and Priestly offered him his beer to wash it down. Dean took a sip and passed it back. "I was over relationships. All I did was work and take night classes at Cabrillo. I seriously had no life."

Their burgers came, Dean's dripping pepperjack cheese and guacamole onto the plate. Priestly swiped a finger through it, ninja-quick, and Dean didn't even swat his hand. He turned the plate so the excess sauce was facing Priestly and ate a couple of fries.

They ate for a few minutes, Priestly his burger, Dean his fries, until Dean cleared his throat and took another swig of Priestly's beer. "Friend of mine I worked with, we got drunk together one too many times and ended up." He turned his eyes to the plate, embarrassed, and poked a fry against his bun. "You know. And I figured why the hell not, I was cursed when it came to women, how bad could men be after all that crap?"

Priestly tilted his head and swallowed the bite he was chewing. "Do you date them, or do you just..." He picked up two fries and did something so lewd that Dean barked a laugh and slapped the table.

"Uhhh, I date, I guess. I'm not that social, though. I don't really get the chance." He was still laughing, picking up his burger one handed and fitting a remarkable amount of it in his mouth.

Priestly didn't have the heart to let him walk around with guacamole on his face for the rest of the day. He grabbed a napkin and tossed it at Dean's head. Dean wiped his face off, squinting into the reflective face of the metal napkin dispenser. He frowned at himself when all traces of the green were gone.

"I'm so smooth," he grumbled, tossing the napkin onto the table.

"You're a regular Bond," Priestly agreed.

\--

Excluding that first night they met at the bar, Priestly hadn't been out partying with Dean. They were both feeling no pain, Dean settled back in a booth with a pitcher and a repeatedly drained glass in his loose-fingered hand. Priestly was messing with the jukebox, trying to find something that wasn't honky tonk or standard bar crap. Dean kept waving at him and swallowing down more beer, and Priestly was wasted enough to find it funny, so he started laughing and the letters and numbers on the jukebox blurred.

He picked some ZZ Top, because even Priestly couldn't deny the classics, and was relieved to find some Ramones. He slid in more quarters—an ungodly amount, who knew jukeboxes could get away with charging so much? He looked over at Dean to give him a thumbs-up, and this time, Dean wasn't alone with just a pitcher for company at their booth.

There were two other people, a couple maybe, but it turned out the girl was just a giggly waitress who sauntered away from the booth leading with her hips. The dude was tucked up under Dean's arm; hard to tell if was intentional, since Dean had it draped over the back of the booth, taking up space as usual. The dude was practically his Siamese twin; there was literally some armpit to shoulder touching going on, and Priestly's vision swam again.

It took him a moment to figure out why. He was drunk and confused and it took Dean laughing so hard his molars were probably showing for Priestly to identify the hot rush in his stomach.

He was jealous. Pissed and jealous. It threw him off but it didn't go away, and he told himself it was just seeing some punk pawing all over his buddy, monopolizing their time and their motherfucking booth. He went over, combat boots against the floor hard thuds that announced him long before his arrival, and pressed fists to the booth table. He kinda towered over the pair of them, blocking the light.

"'Sup?"

"Hey, Priest. This is Joey. He bought us another round." Dean grinned and clapped Joey on the shoulder, his arm coming down from the back of the booth to do so.

Joey just laughed, cozied up against Dean's side. Hip to hip and thigh to thigh. The sweater Dean was wearing was clashing hardcore with Joey's good old boy meets surfer attire. Beach shorts and a motherfucking flannel shirt, no shit. Priestly smiled down, the picture of sarcasm, and Joey noticed but didn't move away.

"Hey, dude, what do you say we bust out of here? I've got some John Woo shit I've been meaning to marathon."

"I dunno, I'm pretty smashed." Dean pushed his glass away with the tips of his fingers, a small, self-amused smile on his lips. "I don't think I can walk, man, and I don't—I'll probably pass out on your couch."

"Man, my couch is always happy to be squashed flat by your gigantic ass. It's a masochist."

Dean laughed hard and long at that, leaning over the table. Joey laughed too, ignoring Priestly's intent staring.

"I dunno, what d'you think, Joey?" Dean turned to ask Joey directly, and their faces were inches apart.

"Stay here and party," Joey said. He sounded like a stupid frat, and Dean raised his glass in a salute like Joey had just given the world's best speech.

Priestly pushed off the table and went over to stare at the jukebox some more.

\--

Joey got up to piss or have a smoke twenty minutes later, and Dean still sat in the booth, waiting for him to come back. Priestly swallowed the last in a line of three shots he'd been working on, tightened the belt of his liquid courage, and went over before Joey could come back.

"Can we talk?"

Dean licked his lips and both of his eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise. "Sure, dude. Siddown."

"Outside, or something?"

Dean blinked. "Why outside?" He was already scooting out of the booth, though.

"I can't hear myself think in this joint."

"You're the one who picked the Ramones!" Dean snorted, bracing himself on the edge of the table before standing up straight.

Priestly knocked his foot against Dean's muddy work boot. "C'mon. It'll just take a minute."

They walked toward the door, Priestly leading, even though Dean usually booked it twice as fast as him, courtesy of those stilt legs. The air outside was a punch compared to the humid smoke of the bar, even though it was a moderate night and there was still some action in the streets, cars whizzing past. Priestly nodded toward the side of the bar, and Dean followed, a fucking puppy.

A dumpster was their only eavesdropper. Dean dropped back into the shadows and leaned against the side of the building, so drunk Priestly felt guilty for making him walk, but there were more important things.

"Are you gonna go home with that Joey dude?"

It wasn't too dark to see the slack expression Dean made. "Huh?"

"You gonna fuck him? He's been sitting on your lap for like an hour." His voice was rougher than he would have liked, but he was pissed, and he hated playing third-wheel to some shit-brained, flipflop-wearing jackass. "I'm gonna book, and I wanna know who you're leaving with in case you end up missing and the cops wanna know whose basement you might be hogtied in."

"Whoa, wait a minute—"

Priestly raised his hands and laughed. "I'm not judging, I'm just saying."

"You care if I go home with that guy?" Dean's voice was so incredulous it was almost squeaky.

"I don't give a shit where you put your dick, build a gloryhole if you wanna, but don't be a dumbass." His voice was rising too, and he wished he had a cigarette so he could take a moment to drag on it and calm down.

"Because you're not judging. Right." Dean's voice went all wobbly and deep, like he was trying for flat but was too distracted, or drunk, to manage.

"Man, we are not seriously having this conversation!" he huffed. "You know I'm not like that. I'm trying to be your fucking pal here."

"By bitching at me over who I'm apparently gonna sleep with? Why the hell do you care? If it was some girl, you'd just tell me to have a good time—"

"It's not some fucking girl. It's fucking Joey."

Dean pushed himself off the wall, the shadows falling away from his face like a curtain, but he was still hard-planed and his eyes so narrow they were black. "You think I'm stupid?"

"I don't think you're stupid, I was looking out for you since you're fucking drunk and you might not be making the best decisions right now. Jesus Christ."

"You give a shit that I might take a guy home. I can't believe this."

Priestly's jaw ticked and he pressed the point of his tongue against the bottom of an incisor, hard, to ground himself. "You know that's not what this is. Don't be a bitch."

"I don't know what this is!" Dean shouted, arms outstretched, suddenly seeming twice as big as he was normally, not to mention in Priestly's bubble of personal space.

He snapped and pushed a finger against Dean's chest, which made him stumble. "I don't want your drunk ass to fuck that guy, you're damn right."

"Why not?" Dean challenged, breath sour with beer. "Why do you give a shit?"

"Because I --" his teeth gnashed and it wasn't pleasant, and Dean kept pressing in on him, and there was only so much denial Priestly could be in before it turned into outright lying. "I'm thinking about maybe you fucking me, and I don't want you screwing some random ass, okay? It's a problem."

Instead of the wide-eyed shock or horror or whatever the hell he was expecting, Dean raised his chin and tightened his mouth. "Thank you," he yelled, stepping back a few so Priestly could breathe again.

They were both panting hard, angry, the dumpster a solid and strangely judging presence for an inanimate object. Dean was quiet now, and Priestly didn't know if he was still looking at him because he couldn't actually meet his eyes anymore.

"I think we hit the five beer awkward stage," he said, only a little choked. "Sorry."

"Yeah, well, I'm drunk enough to not freak out, there's a bonus, I guess." Dean murmured it so the slurs were hardly audible.

"Good. We can just exchange awkward hungover texts and then forget I said anything, I'm down with this plan."

"You were thinkin' maybe?" The words ran together. Dean wasn't getting any closer, but it felt like he was, his voice sounding like it was coming from maybe Priestly's shoulder. "Like, my friend is bi so I've gotta have a sexuality crisis by default?"

Priestly made the mistake of looking up, and Dean was just staring, and it made him uncomfortable in places he didn't know you could feel uncomfortable, but he wasn't a pussy. He'd done far more stupid things in terms of his love life, so he met Dean's eyes. Well. He looked at Dean's face, in any case, focusing on the mole just above his chin. "Like, maybe I can handle some cock if I'm broken in slowly. Maybe."

Dean did a remarkable job of not laughing, even though his lips quirked. "You aren't very smooth."

"Says you. I'm a baby's ass. I just get weird when there's liquor involved. Again, it's a problem."

"Yeah, whatever." Dean did come closer this time, but not like he'd taken Priestly's little girly confession as an invitation. He did it casually, until they were side by side, Dean looking over his shoulder at Priestly's face. "You gonna get a cab?"

"I'll make sure to set out a bucket for your hangover," he promised, skin only squirming at their proximity a little. He kind of couldn't believe the words 'handle some cock' had come out of his mouth.

"You're a peach."

It could have been worse.

\--

He decided—as in, thought about it while waiting endlessly in line for some Starbucks—not to let it get weird. He was a full-grown adult (his collection of GI Joe memorabilia and strange 70s lunchboxes aside), and he could handle himself. Dean was a friend, and it hadn't mattered before that he dug those of the male persuasion, so by the same logic it wouldn't matter than Priestly was thinking about, maybe, kind of, mostly when he was drunk, digging them too.

'Them' was stretching it. He grabbed his coffee and eyed up the guy who handed it to him. He wasn't bad looking, for a college kid; short, spiky black hair and blue eyes that didn't look outright offended by Priestly's being in the vicinity. When he tried to imagine himself with the guy, just touching his arm or whatever, it made his stomach turn nervously. Not a pleasant sensation. He took it a step further and pictured them kissing, and he nearly dropped his hot coffee down the front of his new-to-him Cobra Commander shirt. So, apparently Dean was the only guy he could think about sucking face with without accidentally incurring serious injury.

"Have a nice day!" barista dude said cheerily. Priestly mumbled something and sipped his coffee. It wasn't his finest social moment.

As long as he could let it not get weird, no awkward silences, no strange looks, no more getting drunk and babbling embarrassing things, he reasoned he could handle the newest turn in his relation--interactions with Dean. As an offer of good faith, he called Dean up and invited him over to watch an Ocean's marathon. Dean's voice didn't betray a thing; he sounded as friendly as he ever had, so Priestly hung up the phone and went back to his place in a pretty damn good mood.

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. Who didn't love a badass heist movie? But as he got further into the twelve pack, he kept sneaking glances at Dean and wondering what he was thinking about Brad Pitt and George Clooney. He was bi, it was a given he'd think they were hot, right? Maybe it didn't register. Maybe Dean was one of those guys who didn't picture himself fucking every attractive person he saw. Dean looked normal, taking a drink of beer every so often and rustling the bag of Cheetos when he grabbed for a new handful. He just crunched and watched, not noticing Priestly's eyes on him.

When he started wondering which of the guys was Dean's type, and when it lead to wondering how Priestly compared (to George fucking Clooney), he made himself stop. It was difficult, but he made a concerted effort not to look over at Dean every five minutes. Eventually he paid more attention to the badassery on screen than his own crazy thoughts over Dean's preferences.

The next time he did look over, it was halfway through Ocean's 12. Dean looked tired. Not yawning much, but slinking down in Priestly's couch and watching the movie with glazed, half-mast eyes. A thought struck him.

"Hey, do you get high?"

"Hmm?" Dean blinked at him. "You mean drugs?"

"Well, just pot. I'm not talking about busting out the crack pipe."

"I—" Dean hesitated, tilting his head. "Not so much. I tried it with my friend Kyle one time, after he got back from the Navy, but I just coughed a lot. I think I was paranoid, too."

"It was your first time," Priestly shrugged. "Sometimes it happens that way. Do you wanna... smoke up with me? If it's not your thing, no big deal, I just—"

"Sure," Dean agreed in a rush. His long fingers tapped out a jittery rhythm on the side of his beer can. "You're probably more fun than Kyle."

"Cool." He heaved himself up from the couch, which took a couple of tries consider how old and low to the ground it was. "I've got all sorts of shit to eat in case you get munchies like I do."

He kept his pot on top of the fridge in one of the vintage metal lunchboxes he had, tucked inside of the thermos. It worked out well; he could use the lid as a rolling tray. The other accoutrements he kept separate, in a breadbox—his bread he kept on the kitchen counter, like a normal human being. He flipped open the box and reached for the pipe and the huge Hula Girl bong someone bought him for his birthday a few years back. Priestly had thoughtful friends.

Dean had turned off the movie, and was standing at his stereo, fiddling with the dials. Priestly watched him with eye on the bowl he was packing into his pipe. No one touched Priestly's music except for Priestly, but Dean was the last person on earth likely to want to jack his cassettes, and Priestly wouldn't have to give him a black eye for stealing Standing on a Beach. You didn't mess with The Cure.

"You ready?" he asked, in a voice so smug and fake he'd laugh at anyone else for using it.

Dean turned around, CD in hand and looking rife for corruption. "Sure. Fire it up." He gave an encouraging smile that did nothing except make him look nervous and fourteen years old.

Priestly pulled out his Bic.

\--

They were sprawled on the living room floor, staring at the ceiling. The Cheetos bag was almost empty and lying between them. Priestly wouldn't have been surprised if the pot was laced, because he hadn't been that baked in a long, long time. A beer buzz and a few bowls of pot didn't normally go toward making him that fucked up. After they got past the first twenty minutes of Dean coughing, pretending he didn't need to cough, and then erupting into violent hacking fits while Priestly laughed at him, they settled down and gorged. They ate the leftover cold pizza from the fridge, and came back into the living room to eat the Cheetos and drink more beer. It was all wheezing and stupid conversation at that point, so pointless he could hardly remember it, but he did remember Dean claiming the couch was prodding into his bones, so they got on the floor.

In his peripheral, he could see Dean, swallowing hard and staring up into the middle distance. He probably had cotton mouth from the pot and chips. Priestly did, and his neck hurt. He wished he'd had the foresight to drag a pillow down with them. At his side, Dean's head jerked and rolled against the carpet. Priestly giggled when he remembered he hadn't vacuumed for a month. Or three.

"Dude, what are we listening to?"

Priestly winced at the sensation of the rough carpet pressing into his cheek. "I dunno. You picked the fucking album."

Dean licked his lips. "I don't remember what I picked."

He lifted his head, straining to hear, and caught some strange moany notes. "Uh, are you sure you put in something of mine?" he laughed, head thunking back down. The gel in his hawk crackled in protest, but it was already squished to high hell. "It sounds like Neil Diamond or some shit."

Dean laughed, stomach shaking and wrists bumping strangely in time. His arms were spread out and he looked like Christ without the cross. Or it least he would. If you were in an airplane and Priestly had no roof. Or maybe if you were hanging upside down from the ceiling, like Spiderman. "Oh, yeah, I put on the radio. I remember now."

Priestly rolled over onto his side. "You're fucking hiiiiigh," he accused, but it came out girly and weird.

Dean barked. It was the only word for it. "It's your fault," he high-voiced back.

They kept laying there, Priestly on his side facing Dean and Dean still on his back. He was considering passing out, full stop, when his traitorous brain tuned in to what was playing on the radio.

"Did you put my fucking radio on an oldies station, Forester? Are you retarded? Do you have a death wish?"

"No, I put on classic rock! Or I think I did. One of your presets."

"I don't have presets," he grumbled, trying to account for all of his limbs so he could get up and fix this. "I don't listen to the radio. The devil lives in the fucking radio."

Dean laughed so hard at that he flopped. It looked like he was having a seizure. Priestly groaned hard and somehow managed to pull himself into a sitting position, but it felt like he was prying himself from a vat of honey. His head felt funny. God, he was baked.

"Wait, no, don't change it." Dean's hand reached out and caught his wrist, fingers locking around the bones and squeezing. "It's American Pie. You do not turn off American Pie."

Priestly snorted but lay back down. Dean let go of his wrist after a moment. Priestly studied it. "Dude, you got your Cheeto dust all over my arm! That's nasty!"

"Shhh," Dean said viciously.

Priestly halfheartedly wiped his wrist off on the carpet and blinked up at the ceiling. The light up there hadn't worked for years, and he thought he saw a cobweb lurking near the fixture. He realized Don McLean was singing on a philosophical level, but he knew if he tuned in it would remind him of long, hot car rides with his parents and their godawful tapes. Sometimes he missed his parents, and then the reality of their existence would hit him in flashes. Those car trips, his mom dusting everything with Pledge like it was her personal oath to Jesus that there would be no dust in her home, and his dad flipping between The 700 Club and some fishing show.

"This song is really sad," Dean said suddenly. He sounded forlorn, which was funny.

Priestly rolled over again. "It's eighty billion minutes long."

"No, listen to it. It's—heartbreaking." Priestly choked. The song chose that moment to be ironic. I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck with a pink carnation and a pickup truck. Dean flapped an arm at him. He looked even more upset than he had before. "Don't laugh at me. Listen to it. It's horrible."

"You got that right," he muttered, but dutifully shut up and tried to vibe.

Dean must have been existing at a level of pathos Priestly hadn't yet reached, because he was completely stricken still, the only evidence of his being alive the steady up and down of his chest under his shirt.

Maybe it was possible Priestly had some latent hippie blood, because by the time McLean was singing about Satan laughing with delight, Priestly had gone as still as Dean. It was one of the more cheesy instances in his life, the sort of thing that could only involve drug use. It felt like his skin was buzzing and the song just went on and on, making him sadder and sadder for Julian Lennon and, like, the world. And he hated Buddy Holly.

"This is really lame," Priestly said dourly, when he found himself tearing up.

Luckily for him, Dean was shamefully glimmery-eyed too. The song started to end, and he poked Dean's shoulder.

"I can't believe we just sat here and wept like emos." He made himself sit up, hands braced on the thick carpet in preparation for the inevitable head rush. It came, making him groan pathetically.

"We're high, I'm pretty sure it's allowed." The station switched over to an annoying commercial, but Priestly ignored it because he didn't think he could stand up yet. Dean groaned. "Eugh, I feel like crap. I think I ate too much." He shoved the bag of Cheetos away from him, towards Priestly.

Priestly picked it up and folded the bag over on itself to resist temptation, the plastic crinkling. He looked down at it, and frowned suddenly, remembering what he'd been bitching about before. "I can't believe you smeared me with your nasty Cheeto crap." He furiously rubbed at his forearm, so hard it would have stung if he hadn't had a nice numb feeling going on.

"Cheedle."

"What?"

"It's called Cheedle, the dust stuff that's left behind. Like, for real, that's the name for it."

"Do you drunk-Wikipedia, or something? Jesus. That is intense." He tilted his head down to look at Dean, who was yawning, his eyes turning to black slits, which was especially bizarre considering the angle. Dean could probably see up his nose, if he was looking. "You've got Cheedle on your mouth."

Dean's eyes widened back to their normal size, and he laughed, swiping a big thumb around the corners of his mouth. There was still a garish streak of orange above his upper lip, and Priestly swatted Dean's useless hands out of the way to do it himself. It was instinctual, not a move he put thought into; it wasn't until the hot air of Dean's exhale caught his wrist that he noticed what was going on. And how weird it was.

Not weird, exactly. Something else. Dean's expression didn't change, still gloriously stoned and glassy-eyed, and Priestly's pointer finger pressed down on the skin of his upper lip. He could feel the slight give of the flesh beneath the tip of his finger, the solidness of teeth just underneath. It all lasted maybe five seconds, but it was intense, and when he pulled his hand away, he had goosebumps. Actual goosebumps.

"God, we're gay," Priestly breathed, more annoyed and astonished than anything else.

Dean's face scrunched up in confusion, but he laughed anyway, which was a good example of why Priestly liked him so much. "What?"

"Jesus. Is this where I kiss you?" It was rhetorical, because he couldn't stop staring down at the pink of Dean's mouth, pink like a girl's, pink like if he didn't know better, he'd think there was makeup involved.

"What?"

"Fuck," Priestly said, with feeling, right before he leaned over and kissed Dean.

It was some bizarre homage to Spiderman; upside-down, and their mouths didn't line up right. The line of Dean's teeth cut into Priestly's lips when Dean's mouth fell open, probably surprise, and all of a sudden, things got wet and extra Cheeto-flavored. He experimentally opened his own mouth wider, and the vibration of Dean's moan made his metaphorical head swell. It was a hot rush of fuck yes that intensified when Dean somehow sucked Priestly's lower lip into his mouth.

All things considered, they were still making out at a horrible angle, Priestly hovering precariously and bracing his weight on his hands. He was way too high and unexpectedly horny to keep it up without toppling over at some point, so he pulled away, sticking out his hand to pull Dean up with him. He was all for immediate resumption of mackage, but Dean was staring at him and his mouth was slick, hanging open.

"You wanna talk about this?" Dean was silent. He looked less gobsmacked, but no less blasted. Priestly sighed. "This isn't some two-beer queer situation. You know. I wouldn't do this if I didn't want to."

"I don't—"

"Can we make out without this getting weird, please?" He tossed it off to be funny, but he meant it, too.

Dean blinked. "All—all right?"

Now that the momentum had been thoroughly halted, Priestly didn't know what came next or how to get it rolling. He stared at Dean because he was high enough not to care about being embarrassed. The way his bangs fell across his forehead made him look younger, smoothing out his face to something softer.

He inched himself closer to Dean, until their knees were knocking together, and he was in danger of overbalancing again. Dean was still bigger and taller than him, his torso longer. Nothing but incidental parts of them were touching; their knees, a few inches of leg above that, and then when Priestly raised his arm, he had a handful of Dean's hair caught thick in his fingers.

This kiss went easier, less of a zing than the first because they both knew it was coming. Dean's mouth was so soft, and he smelled good up close, clean and spicy. There wasn't one thing about him Priestly could write off as being not-Dean, not a guy, with his teeth working Priestly's lip between them until it was swollen and hot. He let it go, and Priestly pushed back with his own tongue, the drag of the barbell through it when it brushed against Dean's not entirely pleasant but really doing it for him.

They made out so long that it melted into something endless. Dean went soft and slow, and things got hazy for Priestly; he didn't notice when big hands slid up his back on top of his shirt. He did notice when Dean pulled back, took a second to breathe, and breathing was overrated because it meant he wasn't being kissed stupid like a high school girl.

Dean's hands stayed where they were even though they weren't kissing, and Priestly was cool with that. He couldn't really feel his lips, and he suspected the tender spots on his chin were from beard burn, but he was cool with that too.

"Wanna watch some TV?" His own voice startled him, lower and quieter than he expected. "I think you kissed my face off."

Dean smiled, and damned if that didn't draw attention to how utterly screwed Priestly was, what with how he immediately wanted to smile back and maybe grind his dick against something. "Hey," he said, sounding suddenly curious. He casually smoothed a hand across the side of Priestly's face, right along his jaw. "Didn't you used to have facial hair?"

Priestly was too stoned and distracted by Dean's hand to process what he'd said. "Um." It took until both of Dean's hands went to his waist, settling, before it clicked. "Oh, yeah. Pain in the ass to grow out and keep up. Got kinda used to shaving, too." His being clean-shaven more than anything else was probably what had tipped the scales into convincing Tish to date him.

"I like it," Dean said, smiling.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Um." He licked his lips, and Priestly was fascinated. "I'm kinda hungry."

"You're weird. I'm getting you high more often; it's like a case study." Dean's hands left his waist and stayed that way, and Priestly could feel their absence perfectly, down to each finger.

"You order, I'll find us something to watch."

He managed to get himself vertical. And it was weird, walking into the dining room to find the phone, knowing things for sure about himself he hadn't previously acknowledged. Knowing stuff about Dean he hadn't known before, like the tooth he had that felt like it'd been chipped. His head felt light, and his stomach was panging a little with what felt like nerves, but overall it was good, it was fine. It was ordering pizza so he could watch movies with Dean, and he had done that a dozen times before.

\--

He jerked off thinking about Dean that night. Quietly, under covers, all the lights off and making very little noise, old school jerking off, as if his parents were going to barge in at any moment. Some primitive part of his brain was still not convinced they wouldn't, and he came, hips bucking, with a sob that he bit his lip down on.

After, he felt weird. There was come rapidly drying on his front, and some of it got on the top sheet. He stripped it, pulling it out from its hospital corner in one forceful tug, and threw it onto the floor to deal with later. The comforter would work fine for the night. He used his discarded boxers to wipe up the mess on his stomach, and the strange, tense atmosphere in the room reminded him of every bootycall aftermath. Those ten or fifteen minutes where you got your things together and had nothing to say, and someone very badly wanted you out of their apartment. Only it was Priestly's apartment. He couldn't go anywhere.

Sighing, he wadded up his now tacky boxers and chucked them next to his sheet. That was supposed to be his standard, relaxing pre-bedtime masturbation session. Instead of feeling pleasantly drowsy and boneless, his brain kicked into high gear, and started asking him uncomfortable questions. 'Why did you think about some dude's dick when you came, Boaz?' He hated it when his own inner voice got condescending.

He hadn't gotten very far in his slideshow of mental pictures, what with the fact that he and Dean had only gotten to just past first base. He'd been straight, hand to God, for all of his life. Except for the one time in junior high when he and his best friend Abraham compared dick sizes, side by side, and the inappropriate fluttery feeling he got whenever he watched Jason Statham punch things. Other than that, there had been no indication of gayness. Homosexual tendencies, whatever.

It was something else to go from jerking it to his stash of predictable, doggy-style fantasies, to picturing Dean's hand around his dick, Dean's mouth on his. There weren't a whole lot of Technicolor special effects; he didn't think about, you know. Fucking. He imagined them getting off, and the memory of it made him warm all over.

He slid on a new pair of shorts and got back onto the bed, sitting against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankles in front of him. He had a newer tattoo on the side of his right calf, a skull with a Mohawk—hey, oldie but goodie—and it was a distracting shape on otherwise unmarked skin. Priestly had only recently started moving down from torso level with the tats. The ink gave a psychosomatic phantom itch, and he used his heel to scratch it while he went for his phone on the bedside stand.

Dean picked up halfway through the chorus of a song Priestly was glad he did not recognize.

"Hey." His voice was softer than normal, but it was close to midnight.

"So I just jerked off over you, and now I can't sleep. This is your fault."

Dean made a noise like he'd swallowed a baseball, and Priestly pumped a fist in silent victory. "I. Um." He laughed. "Wow."

"I shot on the sheet," he said, although far less casually. His voice started to waver and betray him, so he cleared his throat and sat up straighter. The headboard cut painfully into the small of his back. "It was—interesting."

"That's—wow." Dean wasn't the most loquacious dude, but Priestly had never reduced him to stammering before. He laughed again, but the nervousness behind it didn't make Priestly feel all that self-conscious. "I don't know what to say."

"You're allowed to change the subject. Tell me about your job. Bore me to sleep."

Dean chuckled again. Priestly settled down into his bed, drawing the lone comforter up around his waist.

\--

He was dead tired at work the next day, despite the fact that his shift started at ten-thirty. He got there at ten to eleven. Jen threw him an apron that he tied on, unusually subdued and fighting back yawns. Trucker noticed, and while Priestly may have been terminally late and some might say unreliable, he was always dishing up smartass alongside his orders of cole slaw and fries. Quiet wasn't something Priestly rocked.

"You okay, Priest?" Trucker asked.

"M' fine. I was up late, is all. Didn't get to sleep until six."

Tish glanced up from a table she was wiping down, but when she saw him looking back, she ducked her face down.

"Sounds like fun."

"Pretty much. Sorry I'm moving a little slow."

Trucker waved a hand that sent Priestly back to slicing tomatoes and checking their supply of wheat loaves. The shop was notably quiet; only two customers sitting in booths, one of them reading a book and the other typing on their BlackBerry. Normally Priestly would be whistling The Sex Pistols, or giving Jen hell over her recent sex life just to see how deep she could blush, but all he wanted to do was zone out and do things by muscle memory.

Zoning out meant he could think about Dean—the low murmur in his ear that kept him awake until a truly ungodly hour. He was so ridiculously gay for the guy, it wasn't even funny anymore.

It was just eleven; the first of the early lunch rush would just start to come in during the next few minutes. He made sure he had a new squeeze bottle of mayo ready; Tish always forgot to refill the condiments. Sure enough, he could hear the door open.

"Hey, Zo," Trucker greeted his wife.

Priestly tuned them out to think about Dean some more. It was hard to do when Tish came back behind the counter, squeezing past him at the grill, her flower-sweet perfume as strong as a slap in the face, even with his back turned.

"That's a six inch tofurkey."

"Yeah, got it." He started assembling the sandwich, trying to ignore Tish. He was over her, but wasn't in the mood to mend fences.

"How are you, Priestly?"

He craned to look over his shoulder and smiled at Zo. She was wearing the usual Zo attire, but she'd layered so many hemp rope necklaces that it looked somewhat like a noose around her neck. She smiled back at him, serene as ever.

"I'm good, Zo."

"You look tired. You should make sure you're drinking enough water."

"I'm fine, I had a late night." He flashed back to finally hanging up the phone and noticing that the sun was up. Dean was practically asleep.

She cocked her head at him and the look on her face went from kind and placid to curious. "Priestly, I'm glad for you."

"Huh?"

"Sometimes, true happiness comes in the most unexpected packages."

Confused, but not liking the little part of him that said Zo was pulling her weird psychic stuff that always made him nervous, he wrapped up her tofurkey and slowly slid it across the counter.

"Hello, fortune cookie," Tish muttered.

"Zo, you staying for lunch?" Trucker asked, sounding like his true happiness depended on her saying yes.

"I have a while before I have to get back. I'm doing inventory on crystals, and I have to supervise a tarot workshop at twelve fifteen."

Trucker grabbed her gently by the arm and took her over to an empty table at the back.

Priestly went back to prep work while he still had time, putting Zo's strangeness and Tish's less-than-welcome presence aside. The door started opening once every few minutes and Jen kept passing back internet orders, and he got into his usual vibe, sandwich after sandwich coming together like he was a machine.

By the time lunch was in full swing, he was feeling it, and overdue for a fifteen.

"Yo, Truck, can a brother get a break around here?" He wiped the side of his face off on his shoulder.

"One more order and Tish'll cover you."

"Fine."

"Roast beef on white, extra mustard, extra pickles."

Okay, he knew that order, and he knew the voice behind it even better.

"Deano. How's life treating you?"

He turned around, hand filled with Dean's extra pickles, and felt himself flush like a thirteen year old when faced with the full force of Dean's dimples. He looked as tired as Priestly felt, maybe more, since he'd had to start work at eight.

"Pretty good. I hammered my thumb about seven times, but good."

"Ouch. That deserves a free bag of chips if anything does."

"You sure you can get away with favoritism that obvious?"

"Buddy, around here? I control the chips."

Dean flashed a grin, perfect teeth on display, and Priestly absolutely did not flush up the back of his neck.

"I'll make your sandwich for you," he mumbled, more subdued, hands fumbling to find purchase on bread or lettuce, something comfortingly familiar. He saw Zo out of the corner of his eye, headed to the door with Trucker in front of her, looking for all the world like he was escorting a princess.

"Is this him?"

"Huh?" His head went up, confused.

Zo had stopped at the counter, next to Dean. The look on her face was unusually interested. Dean was pretending to be fascinated by Piper's three-minute sketch of a clown on the Daily Special whiteboard, but he kept shooting tiny, curious glances to Zo.

"This is him, isn't it." She didn't say it like a question, and turned her wondering gaze on Dean, who smiled nervously and slumped like a five year old, hands in his pockets. "You make Priestly very happy," she said, clear-eyed and sincere as anything.

"I—Thank… you?"

Instead of answering and humiliating Priestly further (not to mention baffling him, since he'd never said anything about his relationship with Dean), Zo smiled at Dean and pressed a quick hand to his forearm.

"I wish you both a joyous life together," she said, and finally left.

Dean looked stunned.

Priestly cleared his throat. "Sorry," he said, sheepish. "That's just—Zo."

Trucker, who was watching his wife walk across the street with the devotion of a NASCAR fan watching Jeff Gordon in a post-victory interview, turned around and leveled a knowing look at Priestly. "You didn't tell us you were seeing someone," he said.

"It wasn't like anyone was asking about my, you know, love life," he said defensively, furiously layering slices of meat onto Dean's sandwich. "Also, awkward."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Trucker," Trucker said cheerfully, and Priestly looked up long enough to see Trucker stick out an encouraging hand for Dean to shake. "You must be, uh, Priestly's boyfriend."

Priestly winced and regretted ever coming to work at this Godforsaken, nosy, ridiculous sandwich shop.

"Um, I'm, I'm Dean," Dean stammered.

"Nice to meet you, Dean."

"Wait a minute." Hearing Tish at a moment when Priestly wanted to crawl under the counter and never come out was like nails on a chalkboard. "You're gay?"

The sheer amount of disbelief and horror in her voice snapped him out of some of his embarrassed funk. Like waving red in front of a bull. "I believe the term is bisexual. Or intersexual, or—monoclinous."

"Priestly." She stepped right up to him to get his attention on her, sparkly-glossed lips pressed into a determined frown. "I think I would have known if you were gay."

"Really?" The sandwich was almost finished; he might have smashed the bun closed a little too forcefully. "What, with your vast knowledge of everything about me? Hey, since you know me so well, would you mind telling me where I put my spare keys? I can't find them anywhere."

She grabbed his arm, pissed off. There was a streak of mustard on the back of his right plastic glove, and some of it smeared onto her when he snatched his arm away. "Stop kidding around. You were never into guys. You don't just switch teams overnight like that."

"Yeah, maybe Dean made me re-evaluate that. I mean, did you see the girls I was dating? Big improvement there." It was a low blow, even for him and even considering what Tish had done, but Priestly tended to work on a "snark first, apologize later" basis when he was furious.

She scrunched her face up in irritated disgust. "What, him?"

"Yeah, him. The guy you're insulting the hell out of. His name's Dean, he works construction, and he's not going to chase dick on me. It's a nice mutual arrangement we have."

"Priestly." Dean sounded worried, and Priestly met his eyes. "Let's go, okay?"

"Hey, it's no big deal. Right, Tish? What does it matter who I fuck? It doesn't matter who you fuck."

"Is that what this is about? Is dating a guy your idea of revenge?" Her eyes turned wide and imploring; it meant she was serious and not just saying it to get a rise, which pissed him off more than anything else she could have said.

"Oh, totally, absolutely. I turned gay just to spite you." He stepped back, stripping off his gloves and tossing them onto the counter. "Fuck you. I don't need this."

He came around to the front of the counter and grabbed an anxious looking Dean by the sleeve, leading him the few feet to the front door.

"Priestly, wait a minute—"

She was still talking to him. He snapped a little, and Dean could tell, because he started trying to pull him out the door, a reversal of before. "I'll call you if I need blowjob techniques. Dean's got a really big di—" One hefty shove got him out of the shop, door slamming closed behind him.

They were standing on the sidewalk, cars and pedestrians going by, the beautiful Santa Cruz sun and blue sky above them like a painting. Dean didn't look happy, and Priestly still wasn't feeling calm.

"What the hell was that?" Dean demanded, voice sharp.

"That was—Tish. I don't know. She really pissed me off."

"I can see that."

"I didn't mean to..." he gestured uselessly. "Get you involved. But after Zo... And then it was all uncomfortable, and she had to go and say that."

"You didn't have to—what's wrong with saying, 'none of your business?'" Dean sounded exasperated.

"That was just too logical for me. I'm sorry, okay? I really am. It happened all at once, and I don't do well under pressure like that."

Dean wasn't looking any more convinced or forgiving (although honestly, Dean's idea of pissed off wasn't very intimidating, more like huffy), and Priestly's Tish-induced rage was wilting fast under the accusing, vaguely puppyish weight of his eyes.

"You're still new," he continued quietly. A girl on a bike—with no helmet, how stupid could you be?—whizzed past him on the sidewalk, and he and Dean stepped closer to the side of the building. "It's something I'm coming to terms with."

Instead of doing the trick to lighten the tenseness between them, Dean's jaw set like a clamp. His shoulders went up, and his face shut down. "Yeah, I got that. It was stupid of me to try and date someone who's clearly still dealing with—their lives."

Wait, what? "Dean, no, that's not—" It tripped out of him in a rush, but Dean shook his head and started walking away, toward his parked truck.

"I gotta get back to work," he said over his shoulder in a stiff, un-Dean voice. "You should go talk to Tish."

Priestly was left standing there, wondering what the hell had just happened.

\--

Lucky for him, Tish spent the rest of the shift pointedly not speaking, or even looking in his direction. It was fine with Priestly; he kept his back to the shop and focused on getting food out in record time, mostly so he could go home and—figure out what to do with the Dean situation.

Trucker offered to let him off early, but Priestly's silent glare put him off that idea in a hot second.

By the time his shift was over, Priestly had gone through every possible emotion in the spectrum. He kept coming back to pissed, but then he'd remember Dean's worried face and how shitty it must have been to stand there through all of that, and he'd just feel embarrassed and kind of sad. He kept checking his cell in case Dean called, but no dice.

When he left the shop, he saw Zo crossing the street with obvious intention to flag him down. He got into his Falcon in record time, hands stiff as he turned the key in the ignition. He didn't look in his rearview to see how close Zo had gotten.

\--

Dean still hadn't called by ten that night, and Priestly was going stir-crazy. He'd been nursing a six-pack since getting home, and the gravity of the situation made him break into another. Liquid courage got ahold of him long enough for a drunk-dial. As drunken phone calls went, it could have been astronomically worse.

"Yo, Dean, it's me. You know it's me, uh. I don't really know what to say, but I want to talk to you, so if you could call me back, that'd be awesome. Okay. Bye."

Thirty minutes later, still no Dean. The TV was on with the sound off, supposed to be some sort of distraction, but all it did was mock Priestly with scenes and commercials of happy couples. Happy hetero couples. For some reason, that made it twice as bad.

He called against at ten forty-five and didn't bother to leave a message that time.

It reminded him unpleasantly of every chick flick he'd seen; someone hanging by the phone, pressing redial, and whiling away the hours with booze and depressing TV. Call him Bridget Jones, for fuck's sake. That wasn't how Priestly rolled. Hell, it wasn't how Boaz rolled.

Driving on seven beers wasn't the brightest idea he'd ever had, but luckily seven beers gave him a moderate to severe buzz, so he didn't care. He found his boots and his keys, and he waved to a neighbor in the parking lot. Points to him, he was so careful pulling out onto the street he could have passed his driver's test all over again.

The traffic wasn't terrible, thanks to the hour. The neon from bars and late-night restaurants made his eyes blur, but thankfully there were no narrow misses or mowed-down street signs.

He parked on the street near Dean's apartment. There was no sign of his truck, which curdled the liquor sloshing around in Priestly's stomach. Drunken adrenalin could only propel you so far, and when the dude you're going over to chew out isn't even home, it kind of cut you off at the knees.

Priestly sat back, hands still gripping the steering wheel, head tilted back to rest against the seat. He felt like crap. He'd driven drunk, and he felt like crap. He pulled out his cell and texted Dean with a sloppy and possibly incomprehensible attempt at 'dude, where are you,' and let the phone drop onto the passenger seat.

He must have passed out there, because next thing he knew, something was tap-tapping near his head, and his neck had one mother of a crick in it. The tapping turned out to be Dean, who was hunched over, peering into Priestly's window. He blinked back sleep and reached to roll down the window. His heart sped up looking at the outline of Dean's body outside the car, some mixture of excitement and fear that wasn't helping him feel less embarrassed and still kind of sloshed.

The night air was colder than he expected, and it made his eyes water.

"You left your headlights on," Dean said in a monotone, just as Priestly was about to try and say hello.

"Oh." He looked dazedly through the windshield, and sure enough, the beams were shining down the street he was parked on. He switched them off. The only illumination left was from a streetlight down the block, and a few people who had lights on inside their apartments.

"That drains the battery."

"I know."

"I probably need to give you a jump."

"Where were you?" he asked, instead of continuing the conversation like a normal person.

Dean drew back from the window and carefully put his hands in his coat pockets. It really was chilly out that night. Like the weather was taking its cues from Dean. "I went out with friends."

"You have friends?" That slipped out without permission, and it sounded way snider than it had any right to. "Uh, that's not what I—I mean, I called you."

"I know. I didn't want to answer you in a bar. It was loud." For some reason, the image of Dean yucking it up in a bar twinged. "And now you're here."

Priestly debated the best way to tell him that he got all upset and drove over to his apartment drunk without sounding like he was Single White Female-ing it. There wasn't one. "Yeah, about that. I'm not stalking you, I swear to God, but after this afternoon and then you not answering your phone, I was crawling out of my skin."

Dean was silent for a minute, and Priestly thought he had somehow said the magic words to screw things up even more. "Do you want to come inside?"

The tone set off alarm bells in Priestly's head. So he hadn't started dating until he was almost nineteen and out from his parent's thumb; he still had almost ten years of experience, and the way that Dean was acting, he was pretty obviously going for 'I'm gonna let you down easy.' Still, an in was an in, and he had no desire to sit in his car and slowly freeze.

His whole body protested moving, all the way up to his brain, which decided it wanted to give him double vision and a wicked case of vertigo. Dean was walking back to his apartment, so he didn't see Priestly wobble around behind him. Small favors.

It was cool and dark inside Dean's apartment. Dean took his coat off, and he turned around looking like he wanted to take Priestly's too, but Priestly just had on a t-shirt. His arms were still taut with gooseflesh from the cold walk from outside.

"You want a soda?" Dean muttered, already headed into the kitchen.

"Sure." He followed and watched Dean dig through his fridge, leaning against the wall. "You know," he said conversationally, "if you're gonna break up with me, you might want to jump my car first. So things don't get awkward later."

Dean straightened up, two Dr Peppers in hand. It seemed like he didn't know where to look. "I'm not..."

"Breaking up with me? Because you always dodge my calls."

Dean passed him his Dr Pepper, and the contact surprised Priestly, who was expecting more of the cold shoulder. Dean still wouldn't look at him; he cracked his soda open and took a long swallow. "I needed some time."

"To figure out if you were dumping me?"

"No. I mean, yes. I don't know."

"Can we do this sitting down?"

Dean nodded and walked the whopping five feet into the living room. He sat on the couch, and Priestly followed. There was a cushion's worth of space between them, but it might as well have been a football field.

"I'm not breaking up with you."

"Right." It sucked to look at Dean, who was a pale, unfriendly version of himself, so Priestly looked at the top of his Dr Pepper can instead.

"Don't you think we should talk about earlier today?"

"Gee, what an idea. I didn't think of that at all when I was calling you tonight."

"Sorry, okay? I really did need time."

"So, talk." He sat back against the couch, the picture of relaxation, even if his hands were shaking, and the idea of swallowing any of his drink made his throat clog and his stomach seize in horror. "I didn't mean to do that in front of you. Or at all. I know it was shitty."

"I don't want to be your rebound."

Whoa, Jesus. He was expecting them to go around on the whole 'Priestly is an uncouth, ungracious bastard' thing, not for Dean to automatically get heavy on him. He preferred it that way, but it wasn't easier. "You're not."

"Really?" Dean's gaze came up, met his, earnest and pissed off at once. "This girl you've been obsessed with for, like, years cheats on you, and all of a sudden, you're into guys?"

"When you put it that way," Priestly said, trying not to grit his teeth. "Look, I know the way I acted was shitty, but I swear to—fucking Xenu, I'm not using you for a rebound." Only there wasn't a way to prove that without the benefit of time, or the sudden development of a psychic connection. It was a stalemate, and the reason that Dean and Priestly were sitting apart on the couch instead of making out and getting to second base. Or third. What was third base with two guys, anyway?

"Yeah, it sure looked that way this morning. Why do you think Tish was acting that way?"

"Because she lives to piss me off? Trust me, man, she'd be acting that way if I was dating a chick. The fact that you're, you know, tall, dark and masculine just gave her more ammunition." He lost the derisive tone, settling into sincerity. Dean was still looking at him, clearly skeptical. "Ask anyone. Ask Trucker, ask Jen, ask—Zo, for fuck's sake. They know I'm crazy about you." It physically pained him to say something so cheesy, but Dean immediately looked less like he was on the verge of calling the whole thing off.

"You're crazy about me, huh?" Dean asked, sarcasm creeping in. "I guess that would explain why you were camped out in my parking lot."

"Fuck you," he laughed. Dean's smirk turned into a full-on grin, lighting up his whole face and making Priestly weak-kneed. He was still tipsy, so at least he didn't feel like a complete girl over it. "You wanna sit closer, or would that be too gay?"

Dean laughed and rubbed his palms across his thighs. He had on jeans, and the t-shirt he was wearing looked soft and worn. He reached out and touched it on instinct, rubbing the material between two of his fingers. It was as soft as it looked, warmed by the proximity to Dean's skin.

Dean's eyebrows went up and he shifted closer, until the distance between them was mostly swallowed. Priestly allowed himself a moment of heart-stopping relief, since he thought for sure Dean was really going to dump him, before he seized the moment and pulled Dean's mouth to his. Carpe Diem and all that.

Dean made a noise and ducked his head so the height difference wouldn't pull Priestly's neck. Even sitting down, Dean was huge, and Priestly wasn't a small guy by any means, but he felt a little like he was trying to make out with a linebacker. Dean's mouth was surprisingly sweet and so fucking hot, and everything about the horrible day he'd had melted away as soon as Priestly got his hands on Dean's waist. He fisted his hands in the cotton shirt and tugged it up.

Dean pulled away, breathing hard. "Whoa, what?"

"Dude, I'm trying to feel you up."

"I can see that." He extricated his shirt from Priestly's grasp and sat back, running a hand through his hair. Priestly politely didn't start sucking on the strip of skin showing above his collar, tan and taut. "Are you—sure you wanna dive into this?"

Priestly stared at him. "You're an idiot. I'm like thirty seconds away from giving you a handjob, and you're making sure I'm okay with a little under the shirt action." He pursed his lips, trying not to laugh at the way Dean squirmed. "You sure you're actually a guy?"

"You, uh." He swallowed hard, eyes shifting. His face was definitely red, a flush that went over his nose and the apples of his cheeks. "Um."

"C'mere."

Dean kissed him with a hell of a lot more enthusiasm, huge goddamn hands framing Priestly's face and teeth pulling on his lower lip. No girl's hands had ever been big enough to haul him around as easy as Dean's did. Those hands were on Priestly's shoulders, pulling him forward. Their sides were pressed together, hip touching hip, both twisted around awkwardly trying to kiss at that angle. The various aches and pains from passing out in his car were wrenching, especially his neck, and he had to push Dean's chest to get them separated.

"You wanna do this somewhere more comfortable?"

"Jesus."

Okay, so he hadn't meant that to sound particularly provocative, like some lame bedroom come on, but Dean definitely took it that way. His eyes were narrowed and intense, mouth hanging open and wet, swollen.

Now that it had gone there, Priestly didn't feel like taking it back. He didn't think he could. Surprising himself, he rubbed his thumb along the inside of Dean's thigh, right near the thick seam of his jeans. Apparently almost breaking up was the surefire way to get rid of lingering doubts. Sexuality crises were overrated.

They did an awkward walk to Dean's bedroom, both of them too aware of what was going on to touch. He wanted to reach out and slip an arm around Dean's waist, or tug his wrist, but it still felt alien. Not that he wanted to, because he'd had weeks to get used to the idea of wanting to touch Dean, but the fact that he could. That he was going to. That he was going to get to do more than touch casually, or make out for a while on an uncomfortable couch.

Dean's bedroom was really, really dark. He flicked on the overhead, but it appeared to be missing one of the two bulbs inside the fixture, so the room was lit with a hazy, buttery glow, the shadows pitch-black and filling every corner.

His bed was unmade but pretty neat, considering that Dean was a guy in his twenties who lived alone. Priestly walked over to it and sat, plumping one of the pillows and not looking at Dean, hoping he'd take the hint and sit next to him. Or lie down. The sheets smelled like detergent and Dean's shampoo, a touch of something sharper. It was a strangely heady combination; his stomach tensed and he found himself instantly, irrepressibly turned on.

"So, uh," he started, still fiddling with Dean's navy pillowcase. The bed dipped when Dean sat down, albeit at the edge, as far away as he could possibly be. Priestly ignored his immediate instinct to reach for him. "My mom always told me that my first time should be special."

Dean laughed so hard the bed shook. The ice was thoroughly cracked. The bed moved some more, Dean settling in, and Priestly turned his head finally, biting back a smile.

He was closer now, so close that all Priestly had to do to kiss him was lean over slightly. It was better this time, impossibly, probably because beds automatically livened things up. Dean's hands weren't shy, cupping the back of Priestly's neck and steering his face into the kiss, and then going to the hem of his shirt to lift it, and holy fuck, he was getting felt up. Not to be outdone, he slipped his fingers under Dean's shirt and traced them over his abs.

The noise Dean made, right into Priestly's mouth, was unlike anything he'd heard from him before. It was low and rough, and it went to Priestly's dick. He was half-hard and getting harder by the second; Dean's hands on him, sweeping across his ribcage and then behind to deliberately scale the knobs of his spine, felt stupidly good. It was hard to figure out what he should be concentrating on; Dean's tongue in his mouth, Dean's hands, or the way Dean's breath hitched when Priestly ran a thumb over his nipple.

Dean made up his mind for him. He put a palm on each of Priestly's hips and yanked him up and over, until the two of them sprawled onto the mattress as a sudden, tandem collision. Priestly was on top, and Dean's hands were still on his hips, fingers digging in. He was, Priestly realized, pushing their hips together. Parts of Priestly rubbed against parts of Dean that sent an immediate jolt of ohfuckyes to his cock.

"Oh my God, that's your dick," he said, too high on contact to care how it sounded.

Dean laughed against Priestly's neck and relaxed his grip on his hips some. His body had come up with a plan of its own, rubbing and grinding down slow. Dean's cock was pressed close against his inner thigh, a warm, jean-covered ridge.

"A lot less clothing would be appreciated," he said. "For the record."

Priestly's shirt was peeled up and over his head almost before he noticed, and Dean went straight for the bar through his nipple. He slowed down once he touched it, hesitantly rubbing his knuckles over it, which kind of tickled. Priestly was so through being new to this guy-sex thing.

"You can play with it," Priestly said.

Apparently to Dean, that meant suck on it. Hard. Priestly nearly came in his goddamn pants. No one had done that to him when there was a piercing involved; he'd gotten it after Tish, and it was the best idea he'd ever had.

"Fuck, goddamnit."

Dean made an affirmative noise against his skin and tugged it between his teeth. Priestly started reciting the alphabet to distract himself. Backwards. He was braced on his elbows above Dean's head, so he couldn't see what was going on, and he thanked God for that. Dean's headboard was so much safer to concentrate on than Dean's mouth doing—that. His elbows were getting tired of supporting his weight, though.

"Can we, uh, not that I'm complaining, I just—"

Priestly was on his back and blinking up at the dim ceiling light, wondering when that had happened. Dean was above him, kneeling on the bed and taking his shirt off, which was like a striptease on fast-forward. His belt buckle, the lines of his sharp hips, his insane stomach that Priestly knew for a fact he didn't bother to go to a gym for, and then finally his head reappeared from underneath the fabric, hair mussed and in his eyes.

Priestly had a moment of silent reflection that his taste in guys was awesome. Only a moment, because just like that, Dean was on top of him. He was freaking heavy, but he couldn't complain when a good portion of that weight was pressing down on his dick.

"Get off of me for a second," he said. He had to clear his throat around how gravelly he sounded. Dean pulled onto his knees again, looking expectant. "Pants."

Dawning realization lit Dean's face, and he scrambled for his belt. Christ, looking at it, his dick looked porno-worthy, bulging out his jeans and most likely uncomfortably tight. Priestly watched him, frozen with the knowledge that he was going to see his first real live cock outside of a locker room and some incredibly boring adolescent show-and-tell, unable to even pull down his own zipper.

Dean's underwear was a pair of Calvin Klein boxer-briefs, snug and riding low on his hips. Dean got off the bed to step out of his shoes and pants. Priestly studied the line of his waist and how goddamn skinny he got there, despite the six pack and wide chest. Priestly had never slept with anyone who had a proper six pack before.

"You gonna take your underwear off, or are we doing this in PG-13?" He wasn't one-hundred percent sure if that made sense, but it didn't matter, because Dean was back to smiling and looking a hell of a lot less intimidating.

Dean got back on the bed and crawled on top of Priestly. He went right back to licking the piercing, and Priestly just let him, staring up at the ceiling and tuning out everything but how good it felt, how warm Dean's skin was, the stripe of contact where his arm went across Priestly's. The rasp of his tongue, the catch and drag as it passed over the piercing.

"You want me to take 'em off?" Dean asked, voice muffled by Priestly's skin. He pressed a few open-mouthed kisses up his chest and along the side of his neck, right over his tattoo, and Priestly's head tilted back, eyes fluttering closed. His hands went to Dean's hips and clenched hard.

"Uh, yeah." Dean nipped his jaw and pulled back, again, and Priestly blinked his eyes back open.

He sat up this time, feeling dazed and not a little nervous, and he couldn't look away, couldn't so much as blink, as Dean's boxer-briefs went from stretching taut across his dick to a crumpled heap on the floor.

He figured some sort of reaction other than slack-jawed staring was called for, so he pushed himself up to his elbows and tried to formulate words. "I, uh, you're."

"Naked," Dean finished. His tone was light, but he couldn't meet Priestly's eyes. Not that Priestly was doing any better. He climbed back on the bed. Leading with his cock.

They started kissing again, slower and softer than before. Dean rested gently on top of him, hips angled toward the mattress. It was gentlemanly of him, really, to save poor virginal Priestly from feeling his hard-on, but ridiculously unnecessary.

"I'm sorry," Priestly began, once Dean was kissing his neck and sending flares of heat to his spine. "I wasn't aware you had a penis. We're going to have to break up."

To send home the point, he slid his hand through Dean's hair, then down to his neck, to his back, stopping once he had a good, firm grip on his ass. His breathing may have become labored at that point. His fingers flexed of their own accord.

Dean made a noise and dropped his forehead to Priestly's shoulder. "I'm trying to go slow," he groaned.

"Did I give you the impression that I wanted slow?" Curious, he spread his palm, seeing how much of Dean he could cup in one hand. Answer: a lot. He had very smooth skin, which shouldn't have been a surprise but was. Dean wasn't responding, breath fluttering out raggedly against Priestly's collarbone. "Could you move so I can take my pants off?"

Dean's head came up. He hesitated before rolling over onto his back. Priestly wriggled out of his pants and boxers, shaking them off of his ankle when they caught there. They went to join brethren pieces of clothing strewn on the floor. Dean was still staring at the ceiling.

"You okay?" he asked, because he was pretty sure the guy you were about to have gay sex with wasn't supposed to look like he was in a waking coma.

"I'm fine," said Dean. "I'm trying to calm down."

Oh. Oh. Priestly allowed himself several moments of staring at Dean's dick, cataloging how big it was, how thick, and how the fuck that was ever going to fit in his mouth and/or ass. "Been a while?" he asked, mostly for something to say, as he climbed back onto the bed and next to Dean. He slung an arm across Dean's middle and had no compunction about pressing his dick right up against Dean's side.

Dean swallowed hard. "Yeah. And other things."

It was entirely different to be out from under Dean in that position. He found himself relaxing, running his hand up and down Dean's side, passing over the jut of his hip and coming close enough to Dean's cock for both of them to stop breathing for a moment. Positioned as they were, it was easy to lean in and start kissing again. Dean stopped feeling like a granite carving once Priestly's tongue was in his mouth. In fact, by the time Priestly tentatively curled his hand around his dick, he was downright eager, kissing so forcefully that Priestly's mouth was starting to swell. Damn biter.

"Ohmygod, don't do that," Dean choked out, just as Priestly was figuring out how jerking off worked in reverse. The words made his hand freeze in embarrassment. "I'll come."

That was a hell of a lot better than the panicked conclusion Priestly had made about being an utter failure at giving handjobs. It would not have boded well for the actual sex. He let go with one last tug, smirking inwardly at the way Dean sucked in a breath of air and squeezed his eyes shut. "Now I know why you were trying to go slow."

"Sorry." Dean looked as embarrassed as he'd felt a moment ago.

"Hey, I'm flattered." He flipped onto his back and stretched, milking it a little. Dean turned onto his side, still looking sheepish and wary. "Seriously."

Something like a smile curled the corners of Dean's mouth, but it stopped once he looked away from Priestly's face. Priestly was newly aware of how naked he was, how hard, and how bizarre it was to see Dean's face change as he checked Priestly out. Girls didn't tend to take what felt like minutes to stare their way down his body. Dean's eyes narrowed, his mouth tightened, and he was looking straight at Priestly's dick, so there was no misunderstanding what was going on.

"You have—" Okay, now he was outright staring. Priestly stopped feeling flattered and light-headed and started feeling worried. "You're. Pierced."

"You're surprised?"

Dean didn't answer. Priestly looked at the potted plant in Dean's windowsill instead of Dean, staring at his dick. He felt the bed shift, but he was focusing on not going fucking soft in front of Dean's extremely watchful gaze, so he didn't notice exactly what was going on.

"Can I?"

"What?"

He didn't look down until he felt breath low on his stomach. It was the only warning he got before Dean's mouth parted wet over the tip and sucked him in. The view he had, it was freaking spectacular, because Dean was using one hand to guide Priestly's dick in his mouth, and he cheeks were hollowing in a way that his timid fantasies had never come close to dreaming up. He grunted and pushed his hips forward, and Dean just let him, Priestly's cock bumping the roof of his mouth.

It was loud, too, and sloppy. Priestly got the feeling that Dean hadn't given too many blowjobs in his day, considering his preference. His hands slid over the sheets and he tried to keep himself propped up, tried to keep staring at what was going on so he could remember it later. He managed until Dean pushed his tongue against the piercing, flipping it back and forth, making Priestly's eyes roll back in his head. It was almost over when Dean pressed his dick against the inside of his cheek and pulled off on a long, slow pop.

At that point, all Priestly could see was the back of his eyelids. Dean's hand was working his dick, larger than Priestly's, rougher than most the handjobs he'd gotten, like Dean was confident in how Priestly wanted it. He was right. A thumb came up to smear precome at the tip, shifting the piercing, and Priestly made a sound he would absolutely deny later.

"Is it—good?" Dean asked, voice husky from sucking cock.

He opened his eyes and considered the ceiling. Again. "I am never going to have a problem with you doing that."

Dean didn't laugh, but he flicked over the piercing and went back to jerking him off with tighter strokes than before. "Do you, I can keep going?"

Till I fucking come. Dean would keep sucking his dick until he shot, and Priestly could see it like it was actually happening; his hands in Dean's hair, the way he wanted to shove his dick against Dean's cheek like before, over and over again, press it to his lips, see how far he could slide into Dean's throat before he gagged. See how far he could take it. He saw himself coming all over Dean's mouth, and while he sincerely doubted it was happening without at least one serious conversation about sexual etiquette first, the idea made him almost come on its own.

"No, get up here." He had the resolve of a fucking saint, honestly. He was turning down getting his dick sucked, but then it would be all she wrote. He figured that if he was having gay sex, he'd have gay sex, not a super-hot blowjob and his first awkward attempt at a handjob.

Dean settled beside him, looking confused. His lower lip was full and glossy, and Priestly knew he was going to spend a lot of time in the future keeping it that way. He wanted to kiss him, but there were more immediate things he had to deal with first.

Now here was a conversation he should have given more thought to having. "D'you, uh, have a preference?"

Dean's eyes narrowed in confusion. He probably hadn't expected Priestly to start getting chatty on him. "What?"

"When you're with guys," he said, trying to be plain but also trying not to get so embarrassed that he had to look away, "do you top or bottom?"

Dean's eyes went from narrowed to wide and shocked. "You want to—right now?"

Yeah, he wanted to, and preferably before his dick fell off. "I'm sorry, did you have plans? Yes, now, as opposed to three weeks from now when you've bought me a steak dinner and I feel obligated."

Dean laughed, but shook his head in disbelief. "I thought you wouldn't want to go so fast," he said.

"You've been wrong like fifty times tonight, man. Get with the program. And answer the question."

"I usually bottom," Dean said, glancing at the bed underneath them. He said it in a tone Priestly would have reserved for answering the age-old 'chicken or beef?' A slow smile spread over Priestly's face, and Dean would have seen if he'd been looking. As it was, Dean seemed inordinately fascinated by the sheets.

"You're such a liar." Dean looked up, flushing. "You need to stop this white knight routine, okay? I'm not going to run screaming out the door over the idea of having sex with you. I like the idea of having sex with you. Hold the chivalry until I actually exhibit some hetero panic, all right?"

Dean had the decency to look guilty. He was a really bad liar. "I don't—you shouldn't, the first time."

"It's going to be a huge hardship to have your dick in my ass," Priestly said, watching the blush come back to Dean's face and feeling absolutely no shame. "But I'll manage." He hesitated. "Do you have stuff? I have some emergency condoms in my wallet, but carrying around KY seems conspicuous."

Dean nodded. "They're in the top drawer."

Priestly knew a cue when he heard one. He sat up and opened the top drawer of Dean's nightstand. Two strips of condoms were inside, and a bottle of lube rolled toward the front of the drawer like it was greeting him. His dick hadn't exactly stayed at full-mast during their conversational sojourn, but seeing the condoms and the lube, as familiar as they were, made him remember all over again what they were for. He picked up the lube, tore a condom off of the strip and shut the drawer.

Dean was lying still on the bed, arm over his forehead, breathing deep but steady. His dick was flush to his stomach and curved left, slick at the tip. He was still fully hard, and Priestly let himself look again, cataloging.

"How do you—" he had to stop to clear his throat. "What do I need to do?"

Dean moved his arm and took the stuff from Priestly's hand. He ripped the top of the condom wrapper off and Priestly moved forward as though magnetized. "I put this on my dick," he said quietly, voice practically bass. And then he started jacking it, working his cock like he'd worked Priestly's, grip tight and sure.

"Then what? I lie back and think of England?" It would have come out better if he hadn't been breathless while he said it.

Dean was really fucking coordinated. He stopped jerking his cock long enough to expertly roll on the condom, and even with a layer of latex, he looked like he was still enjoying the hell out of himself.

"I need to use my fingers," Dean said, and Priestly felt bad for him because he was visibly embarrassed. Talking a virgin through the mechanics of sex sounded hot in theory, but it came out sounding like a medical examination. "Then you lie back and think of England."

"How many?" Priestly asked, uncertainly arranging himself on the bed. The pillow under his neck seemed suddenly too firm, but he didn't have the impetus to squirm around and fix it. Dean touched a hand to his thigh, indicating he should spread his legs.

"Maybe two. I don't—it depends on how relaxed you are." The tone of Dean's voice suggested Priestly wasn't at all relaxed. While his dick wasn't flagging, he couldn't deny the way his heartbeat picked up when Dean settled between his spread legs, or how his stomach was twisting with something not entirely pleasure.

At that angle, with his legs open and Dean kneeling between them, so big he eclipsed the overhead light, Priestly knew he could see everything. How the line of his dick turned into his balls, and then down further. Dean was looking, too, staring between Priestly's legs and running a soothing hand up and down his upper thigh. Jesus, he was staring. At his goddamn asshole. It was the first moment Priestly had where his uneasiness started to encroach on the sex.

Dean popped the lid on the lube bottle and squeezed some out on his fingers. It didn't look like very much, but Priestly still had half of a rational brain to remember that he was starting to wig out.

It was like Dean knew. Instead of staying back on his knees, he leaned forward and resettled, braced awkwardly above him. The positioned looked uncomfortable for Dean, but he didn't seem to care; he covered Priestly's mouth and kissed him in earnest, sucking on his lower lip and humming an affirmative sound when Priestly kissed back.

"It's gonna be good," Dean whispered, breath puffing across Priestly's cheek in a way that made him shiver. He was so fucked up and nervous that being whispered to like a girl didn't piss him off; it made him relax some. Dean was so huge and radiating heat—even where they weren't pressed together, he could feel it.

One finger, slippery and cautious, rimmed his hole while Dean took his mouth again. It was hard to focus beyond trying to breathe, trying to process the alien sensation of Dean gently pressing at him. It almost tickled. Dean pressed his lips to the side of Priestly's; no finesse, no distraction, just a closed-mouth kiss and he pushed his finger in to the first knuckle. It didn't burn, didn't hurt, just felt like a strangely inversed tug, and he was filled enough to know something was in there, but not enough to feel invaded. It wasn't bad. With the way Dean was breathing through his mouth and staring down at Priestly, slightly awed, it was almost good.

He worked the finger the rest of the way inside. There was still no pain, and Priestly realized what a pussy he was being, thinking one finger was going to test his limits. When Dean bit his lip and started to pull out, Priestly felt himself clench in instinctive rebellion. Dean slid it about halfway out, and he pushed it back in harder, fucking his finger deeper than it had been before.

They went on kissing until Priestly had to break away to breathe every time Dean pushed back in. He didn't know how to describe it, and he wouldn't say it was pleasure, exactly, but he liked the way it felt to have Dean pressing into him.

"You okay?" Dean asked. They weren't kissing, but he stayed so close that they breathed the same humid air. So close all Priestly could see of him was flashes; cheekbone, eyelashes, the side of his nose.

His hands were clutching Dean's back, and he didn't know when that had happened. Priestly pulled them down to his sides, fingers impulsively grabbing folds of the sheets, looking for something to occupy them. "I don't think two fingers is going to make that much of a difference." His voice was fucking shot.

"You have to be relaxed. I don't want to hurt you."

"As long as I'm not screaming in pain, I think I can handle it." Being so close was disconcerting. He could hear Dean's surprised little inhale like it was his own. "Dean. C'mon."

"Okay. Okay. Fine." The bed dipped as Dean twisted around trying to find the discarded bottle of lube. He could hear the sound of more being squeezed out, but Priestly was back to studying the ceiling. It was starting to feel like deja vu. The slick sound of Dean spreading lube over his dick, the condom making it extra loud, that wasn't familiar.

He didn't get away with lying back and thinking of England for long. Dean came back up to cover him. He touched and kissed and adjusted until Priestly wanted a wrap a hand around his cock and jerk off, whimpering into Dean's mouth. His legs went to frame Dean's waist, most of his weight resting on his back, and Dean was so excruciatingly gentle, slipping a hand between them to smear lube over his hole.

"Fuck, look at me," he muttered, and Priestly refocused his gaze to see Dean sucking in gasping breaths and shaking.

That wasn't going to fly. Dean wasn't supposed to be the one falling apart during sex; that was Priestly's job. He curled a hand around the back of Dean's neck and pulled him even closer, sharing air again. "Come on. Fuck me. Come on," he said at a barely audible volume, almost mouthing it. The head of Dean's dick lined up against him, and he tensed for it, unable to stop himself. No one on the planet could be relaxed in this situation; it was a goddamn joke. "Fuck me."

The first push in made his mouth drop open. His voice came back to him and he started making noises in the back of his throat, fighting every instinct to tell Dean to stop or throw him off. He made himself focus on things that weren't the giant fucking cock pushing its way inside of him. The way Dean's skin was damp with sweat, how his hair smelled, how the pillow was still too damn firm. How his back was going to hurt like hell after all this.

"God, are you in?" he asked. Dean's push inside was never-fucking-ending.

"N-no," Dean bit out, his hips shoving forward with more force than before, and Priestly's eyes winced shut again. The noises they both made were not pretty. "I told—you it would hurt."

Instead of answering, because duh, Priestly hiked his legs higher around Dean's sides. Objectively, the way Dean was going so slow, groaning and trembling, trying so hard to be gentle when you could tell he wanted to fuck in with everything he had, it was amazing. In the moment, though, he just wanted it fucking over. "Fuck me," he hissed, raising his hips. Dean slipped in another inch, maybe the last inch, and he pressed a hard kiss to Dean or risked making a noise that would probably kill the whole thing.

"How bad is it?" Dean asked shakily, since he was still the nicest guy on earth and Priestly couldn't get away with fooling him.

"I'm not screaming, am I?" he tried to laugh. "It's all right. Just start slow."

Dean pulled back enough to get some leverage, and the first work of his hips tore something animal from Priestly's chest. "Shit, I'm sorry," he groaned, stilling completely. "This isn't what—"

"It's a dick in my ass, man, of course it's going to hurt." He closed his eyes against the burning twinge that seemed to travel up the whole length of his spine. "Now we're going to do this and you're going to show me why gay guys—bother, or we stop right now." He found half of a smile. "I don't really think you want to stop."

Dean bit his lip and worked his hips infinitesimally. It should have barely registered, but it felt like someone was dragging a hot poker along Priestly's insides. It felt like he should have something to show for how uncomfortably filled up he felt, how each drag of Dean's cock seemed like it was going to rip him in half. His body was adjusting, but so slowly he couldn't even track it from one minute to the next; he only knew that it didn't feel as intrusive as it had. He didn't feel like he wanted to push at Dean's shoulders and hurl him halfway across the room, at least. He wanted to keep him close and feel him come and let it be over.

And then they weren't going to talk about how Priestly not taking Dean up on his initial offer was the dumbest thing he'd ever done. In his entire life. No, seriously. Having sex with Dean was no big deal; he was pretty sure he could do that until the sky fell down, but bottoming? No, thanks.

Dean stopped moving completely again, sensing something was off, and Priestly flexed his fingers to work out the kinks and cramps in his knuckles.

"I think you want to fuck me," he said, face buried somewhere near Dean's shoulder. "Come on, Dean."

Dean's whole body tensed, like he was bracing for a fight, but then he rammed his hips forward and moaned so loud Priestly could almost ignore the sting that followed. He did it again, pulling out almost to the tip. It got faster, Dean panting noises on every thrust, Priestly holding on for dear life.

The noises, they were a distraction. A little bit of the gratification, the strange smug I made that happen he'd experienced when he first saw Dean's dick hard, that was coming back. Dean gasped or moaned some cut-off little ah, and Priestly found himself curling his fingers back into fists, this time not out of pain. His thighs pressed closer to Dean's body, boxing him in.

"Do it." He didn't intend to whisper, but his voice was run ragged from everything that was happening. "Fuck, you like it?"

It was just talk, mostly to keep Dean's blood up, but Dean answered him anyway. "Yeah. Fuck, Priestly." He shook his sweaty hair out of his eyes and leaned back, hips still moving, slower, more deliberate. "Hand me your pillow," he said, out of nowhere.

The loss of the pillow propping up his head made his position even more uncomfortable. He laid back and watched while Dean scooted around on the bed, using his hands on Priestly's hips to drag him along for the ride. "Lift up," and Priestly did. He ended up with the pillow stuffed underneath his lower back, giving Dean a better angle.

Dean licked his lips, rubbing his fingers deep into Priestly's hips like a massage. "Does it hurt as much?" he asked, sounding remarkably composed.

Priestly would have shrugged if it wouldn't have looked stupid. "No."

Dean looked down, still massaging. "You're not hard."

Priestly didn't have anything to say to that. It was perfectly evident that he wasn't. With Dean sitting still and at their new angle, it didn't feel like pain anymore, but there was still an uneasy sensation of being overfull.

The lube was pretty close to hand, and Dean uncapped it and drizzled some into his palm. Priestly missed the way he was pressed close, but he guessed the improvement in comfort wasn't anything to sneer at. Looking at Dean at more of a distance, it felt—new, like they were trying something else.

Dean stared down at his own hand coating Priestly's dick. The lube was cool, and Dean's palm very hot. The muscles in his arm bunched and shifted as he spread the lube up over the shaft, then dragged his hand down to cup his balls. "You're so goddamn tight," he said. Priestly couldn't be sure if he was blushing under the sex flush, but he probably was. "It's unreal."

Dean's playing with his balls was nice, going a long way to making Priestly feel like an active participant in sex again. He winced instinctively at the idea of being touched so close to where Dean was inside him, but it didn't actually feel bad.

He could get used to this. Maybe.

Dean kept talking, his fingers sliding up to toy with the head of Priestly's dick. That felt fucking ace, and Priestly let himself breathe deep like a normal human being again. "I thought about this before." His thumb worked the slit, the ring moving along with it, and holy mother of God, things were happening. "Didn't think I'd get it."

"Dean." He had nothing ready to follow it. Dean didn't seem like a talker. Priestly didn't want him to feel—obligated. It was enough that he was trying so hard to make it good.

His dick was hard enough that Dean could jack it, the lube punctuating each stroke with a sticky sound. Dean's hips were remarkably still, as though he were content to sit buried balls-deep and jerk Priestly off for the rest of the weekend without moving.

"Thought you'd be fucking me. Hot straight guy, why would you bother giving it up for me?"

"Dean," he tried again, squirming some.

"But I'm fucking you. I'm in you. Fuck, I'm in you." Dean's hips jerked, and Priestly felt something heavy building in his chest that wasn't trepidation at the idea of starting all over again. "I'm in you, man." He didn't pull out to thrust back in, just quirked his hips to shove down. It was pressure, not pain.

Fuck. He might have said it out loud. Dean was jerking his cock erratically, going faster and faster until there was scarcely rhythm to it. "Yeah."

He pulled back then, and Priestly got the feeling he was testing it out, and Priestly didn't want a good thing to be compromised, so he followed the movement with his hips. This time, the slide back in made him clench in a good way, and it was slow and easy, not pain. Dean took Priestly's lack of response for the signal it was, and moved forward until his hips were pumping.

"Keep jerking your dick," Dean ordered, just as he stopped doing it himself.

Priestly got a hand around himself as Dean used his gigantor strength to hoist Priestly's hips mostly into the air, hands like clamps gripping his skin. He was hard, precome mingling with the lube, snick snick snick of his hand in time with Dean, and he thought he might come, actually freaking come after the trainwreck of earlier, if Dean kept this up. Even though Dean was supporting most of his weight, even if their position was probably ridiculous, even with a huge fucking dick in his ass, he was going to come.

Babbling nonsense like "oh fuck, oh fuck" and with some attempts at Dean's name, Priestly was rapidly reconsidering his opinion on anal sex. The first part sucked beyond the telling of it, but the second part was good enough to be goddamn going on with.

Dean hauled Priestly up even higher, and on a down thrust, something deep in Priestly's ass, or maybe it was his freaking stomach from the way his whole body seemed to spasm, ached. It felt like—the best kind of pressure, magnified, like when this first started getting good. His breath whooshed out like a gunshot, and Dean fucked him even harder, but the feeling didn't happen again.

"God, Priestly, I'm gonna—"

He panted, sweat in his eyes, jacking off so hard and so fast it was starting to hurt. "Yeah, yeah, fucking come."

Dean abruptly dropped him back down to the bed, pulling out right after, and it was a flash of pain like before, but Priestly didn't even care. Dean was frantically rolling off the condom, the head of his dick swollen and red through the ring his fist made around it, and the first splashes of come hit Priestly's stomach so suddenly he almost didn't catch what was happening.

It was fucking hot, literally, warm ropes of come hitting his skin, and Priestly found himself moaning watching Dean shake and jerk himself through it. Some of it got on his dick, and he wanted to rub it in, use it like lube, but Dean was done and panting above him.

Dean didn't stop to catch his breath. He crawled on top of Priestly and shoved a hand down to bat Priestly's out of the way, teeth leaving marks on Priestly's neck, sucking bruises, his hand so much bigger and rougher and better.

"Oh God," was what he got out, right before he was coming, Dean turning his head against Priestly's chest to watch. His whole body surged upwards, lifting off of the mattress, and some part of him wished he'd come with Dean still inside of him, fucking him through it.

\--

It took him about five minutes to become capable of basic speech again. Dean had been his usual thoughtful self and cleaned both of them off, so at least he wasn't sticky with come, which would have really sucked. He didn't think he could move for the next... decade, at least.

Dean was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He got the feeling he was as mind-blown as Priestly was. Neither of them had said anything after some half-insane post-orgasm babbling, and the silence was starting to creep up on him, like it always did.

He cleared his throat. "Some rebound, huh?"

Dean shifted under the sheet, pulling it up to his chin. Priestly mourned the view of his bare chest. He was smiling faintly, eyes exhausted. "I'm a little sensitive when it comes to that." His voice sounded worn down, crackly at the edges.

"Oh?" He adjusted the pillow under his head and slid his leg forward to brush against Dean's underneath the covers. It was cozy and close, even with the dull throb deep in his ass, and he had to fight back yawning and closing his eyes.

"When Rory dumped me, I rebounded hard." Obligingly, Dean moved his own leg forward so they were pressed together, and that casual contact had Priestly flushing. God bless the hormone-soaked honeymoon period of relationships.

"I think everybody does at one time or another. I know why you thought that. I think I thought that, in the beginning."

"Yeah, well. When I rebounded, I got married. Look how well that worked out."

Oh. Well. That would explain a little more of Dean's stubborn fear of it. Priestly lifted his head and propped it up on his hand so he could get a better look at Dean. His face was as sated and sleepy as Priestly felt, a smile curving the corners of his mouth, and it was harder to make himself not kiss him than it was to lean over and do it. They were chaste, mouths closed, and Dean wrapped an arm around Priestly to keep him close. Yeah, they were totally sleeping like that, and Priestly was going to use Dean's chest for a pillow. It was going to be awesome.

"You wanna sleep here?" Dean asked quietly, as though he was psychic. Or just practical.

"Duh. Your bed is ten times more comfortable than mine." He yawned and pressed his cheek against Dean's skin, testing out his pillow theory. He had some give, somehow, with all those muscles, and he smelled really fucking good; totally doable.

"Do you need anything?" Dean asked, still gentle. As though now that the sex was over, this was the time to get nervous.

"Dean. Let your boyfriend sleep, Jesus H. We just went ten rounds in the sex Olympics."

Dean didn't say anything, but his arm went tighter around Priestly's waist.

They fell asleep like that.

\--

No one at work said anything about how Priestly was wearing the same pants as the day before, and a shirt that clearly didn't belong to him. It was a plain red, with a Nike logo above his heart, and it was a size too big on him. It smelled like Dean, and Priestly kept having weird Pavlovian moments where he wanted to go in the back and do things to a piece of freaking material. Tish wasn't there to ruin his good mood. She either had the day off, or she had called in; he didn't check the schedule to see which, just appreciated the gift as it was given.

Trucker gave him a few knowing looks, but they had a big company catering order to fill, lots of boring turkey on whites to go out by eleven-thirty. His shift was over at three, and the lunch hour breezed by until he was left with a few pre-dinner orders, mostly old people with coupons.

His good luck ran out at two-fifty, when he was scrubbing down his station and checking on his bread supply. Tish came through the front door looking harried, and while he appreciated having been spared her for the majority of the day, awkward hostility wasn't his favorite thing ever. She came around to the back and checked her schedule all intently, ignoring Priestly, and then tied on her apron and started checking Internet orders. Jen wasn't on that day, but ever since she and Fuzzy got together, she was less likely to be seen hanging onto the computer like it was a lifeline. Jen and Piper took turns manning those orders, more often than not.

Five more minutes. He could do five minutes of acrimonious silence.

"So how are you?" Tish's low voice was casual and neutral, and he glanced up to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. Trucker was off clearing booths, so it wasn't him she was talking to. Priestly's eyebrows went up. When he hadn't said anything, Tish turned and looked over her shoulder. He could see her Facebook profile loading over her slim shoulder. Typical.

He debated saying "well fucked," but that was personal and unnecessarily bitchy. He dragged his chemical-doused rag over the metal counter a few times, leaving behind streaks. "I've been good." Simple. He didn't need to spitefully tell her the gritty details; it didn't matter, she didn't matter. Priestly's happiness had nothing to do with her. "You?" He did wonder, somewhat smugly, if she noticed the shirt.

She tried for a pleasant smile but it looked phony as hell. "I'm fine."

"That's good. Hey, I'm off. It's been slow so far, you should be breezy 'til dinner rush."

She'd already turned back around to face the computer, but she murmured an acknowledgment when he walked past her to leave. Hey, distant politeness was good; it was better than ridiculous public fights, or sniping at each other over the lettuce. Distant was enough for him, because he was going to go see his boyfriend and they were going to get Mexican food. And fuck, if Priestly had any say in the matter. Fucking was good.

Imagine his surprise when he came out of the shop, cell phone in hand to check any missed calls or texts, and found Dean Forester leaning against his car, longish hair in his eyes, like he stepped out of a broody teenage novel. Priestly stopped dead and stared for a minute, slipping his phone back in his pocket. The stupid rush of happiness that went over him was too lame to admit to.

"Hi," Dean said, once Priestly had gotten his limbs working again and crossed the parking lot.

"Hey." He wanted to kiss him, but he wasn't sure where Dean stood on the PDA issue. He wasn't sure where he stood on the issue, since he normally found couples who went around macking in public rude and kind of gross. Dean looked so sheepish and happy to see him that he had to do something; he settled for standing really close and pressing a hand to Dean's forearm. "You could have come in."

"Nah. I thought I'd surprise you."

"Congratulations, you succeeded admirably."

Dean flashed a quick grin, dimples out in full force, and stepped back. "You ready to go?" He crossed to the passenger side door of Priestly's Falcon and waited.

"Uh, yeah. Just a sec." There was a pile of crap Priestly had amassed taking up the passenger seat. He cursed and hurried to clear it off. The sunglasses he donned, the CD cases he tossed into the backseat, and the fast food wrappers went in a crumpled a pile on the floor. The five or so worn paperback books left joined the food wrappers in the footwell. "All clear."

When Dean got in, Priestly's car may have rocked from side to side. "You keep books in your car?" He peered down at the floor, booted feet placed carefully on either side of the mess.

"Oh, yeah. I always keep books around in case I get bored. Hey, have you read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance?" Twisting and contorting himself, he leaned across the seat and halfway into Dean's lap. His arm stretched down and grappled with the books until he came up with the one he wanted. "You should borrow it," he wheezed, heaving himself back into an upright position, nearly smashing Dean's nose in the process. "It's like, philosophy without the new age bullshit." He held the book out, but Dean didn't say anything or move to take it. He just stared. "Um, or I've got some Palahniuk if that's more your speed?"

"No, I, yeah. Thanks." He took the book and held it gingerly, like it was going to come alive and bite. "I didn't know you were a reader."

Priestly shrugged and turned the key in his ignition. Circle Jerk immediately came blasting through the speakers like it wanted to blow their heads off. He hurried to turn it down. "It's cheaper than going to the movies, if you do it right. Plus I like to keep assfucking people's expectations of me."

He had to turn to check his blind spot as he pulled out of the parking spot, and he caught Dean smiling out of the corner of his eye. It was soft and private, maybe wistful. He wanted to ask what was so funny, but Dean beat him to the conversational punch.

"You still want Mexican?"

"Yeah. I think I dreamed about chile rellanos."

"That's just sad."

He rolled the window down and rested his arm out over the edge. He tended to burn like a motherfucker, but it wasn't too bright outside today, just warm enough for it to feel good. "How was work, honey?" he asked, faux-sugary.

Dean snorted. Priestly noticed he was studying the back cover of one of the books. "It was fine. We got done early, and I don't have another job lined up for a week or so."

"Ah. Hence your mysterious appearance. I thought you were just hopelessly obsessed with me."

"Well, that too," Dean laughed.

"Desperate is not a good look for you, man." Acapulco was a few blocks up, but it was only three; Priestly may have wanted chile rellanos with a fierce passion, but he didn't like feeling senior citizen-esque. "You want to go home and have sex before dinner?"

"Uh." Dean was going to have to get over sounding shocked every five minutes. He liked dick, for fuck's sake. A little immodesty was required from time to time.

"Make up your mind. We passed your turn already, and mine's at the next light." They were almost on it, five cars behind the stoplight and slowing to a halt. "I hope you carry your own condoms, because I don't think I have any in porno size."

"Turn," Dean instructed, sounding breathless.

Priestly put on his blinker. "That's what I thought."

Dean put his hand on Priestly's thigh, and it was a real effort not to swipe a newspaper dispenser while he made the right turn onto his street. When he noticed how said hand spanned the entire surface of said thigh, he may have gotten angrily honked at.

"Fuck," he said shakily.

Dean laughed.

\--

FIN.


End file.
